


Bite the Bullet

by Eulerami



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, Chaptered, Chronic Illness, Drag Racing!!!, Drug/Alcohol Use and Addiction, Eventual/Slow-Burn Romance, Friends to Lovers, Gang Violence, M/M, Mystery, Nudity/Sex, Pre-Canon/Alternate Canon, Prostitution, Racist/Homophobic Language, Story Reinterpretation/Reimagining, longfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 116,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20347126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eulerami/pseuds/Eulerami
Summary: Troy Bradshaw is an undercover detective tasked with infiltrating the 3rd Street Saints, a newly-formed gang of grassroots locals aiming to rid the city of Stilwater of rival gangs led by influential vigilante, Julius Little. His resolution is steely; oversee the dissolution, or worse, of all four gangs walking the streets. This resolve is challenged, however, when a spirited newcomer joins the Saints, forcing him to reconsider which side he stands with in the pursuit of doing the right thing.This is a retelling and re-imagining of the original Saints Row from Troy's general perspective. It explores his struggles, and touches on his past and life before the Saints.





	1. Divine Intervention

Church bells boomed, a hollow, resonate sound. Somehow, it still brought his heart to stir with unease. Never had that ringing brought him any semblance of sanctuary, instead remaining a staunch reminder of the fear and insignificance it inspired in its huddled masses. The overwhelming sense of smallness wasn’t a notion he particularly favored, _and powerlessness? Deflection of blame, of will? _

_Where some found comfort, he found injustice._

He brought the cigarette to his lips, eyes settled on the fogged stained glass and the scuffed murals, veiled in cobwebs. Eyes falling habitually to his watch, the hands clicked away;_ midnight._ Tilting his head, brow knitted, he began loading six bullets into the chamber of the heavy _.44 Shepard revolver, _one smooth shell after another smudged in fingerprints. 

“We don’t have time to be fuckin' around, here.” He said into an empty hall, dim candlelight casting deep, warm shadows over his angled features, voice carrying in the pews. The fire played in the corners, flickering, the eerily headless statue a vague silhouette.

A mature man rounded the corner, adjusting his collar, cross dangling at his neck--tall and dark, with a certain glint in his black eyes.   
  
“Have somewhere to be?” He asked, a tone of reproach in his husky voice. The blonde raised a brow, shooting him a tired glare before his eyes lowered again to the gun. “Well,” he badgered, “don’t let me keep you.”  
  
“Let’s just get this over with,” Troy muttered, stoic, but tremor in his hands betrayed him, Julius’ lips upturning into something of a dismissive smirk. Clicking the barrel into place, Troy gave it a spin before stuffing it in his belt and reaching for his phone, glancing at it and reiterating—“VK were spotted off the corner of 5th. They’ve got girls with ‘em, my guess they’re trying to set up shop. Now, my guy's sayin'—.”

Julius was already leaving the main corridor, leather trench coat splaying out behind him, two guns on either hip. Troy looked up quickly, leaning off the dusty pew and hissing between his teeth, huffing on his cigarette as he followed suit.

Coming down the stairs, Julius’ brow arched as he spoke in the quiet night air, “You plan to talk about it all night or actually do something about it? Now’s our chance.” Troy closed their distance, overly aware of the empty streets. He watched the other’s back as he briskly moved down the sidewalk, one street light after another passing over his shoulders, “they wanna move into _my streets, my neighborhood?_ I don’t fuckin’ think so.” He was livid, but it remained subdued in baritone. “They’ll think twice about showing their faces here.”

“What about King?”

“You let me worry about Benjamin.”

“I’m just sayin, Julius,—“

“And I’m saying I’ll handle it,” he interrupted bluntly, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t wanna’ hear another word about it, are we clear?”

Troy’s eyes narrowed into a lidded exasperation, closing his lips around his cigarette. Julius stared, intently studying his face, before he grimaced to himself again and shook his head. “No use in hiding it, son.”

“I ain’t _scared,_”

“Scared _shitless.”_

"I said I ain’t fuckin _scared, a’ite_—we got a handful of guys and King has a goddamn army, and ya' wanna' go shootin' up his crew, just the two of us?"

“You wanna' go home? Go on home. If you want to walk down these streets, _our streets, our home,_ and feel the fear you’re feeling now, every day you step out your front door, that’s your deal. But I’m startin’ this now, tonight.”

Troy sighed deeply, letting his head hang as he tried to keep up with Julius’ pace. “That’s what I thought,” He quipped, still haranguing him as Troy stared on at nothing. “Now, if you’re done bitchin', get that thing out; we’ve got a job to do. I need you at your best, son. We don’t know what to expect.”

The blonde was reaching for his gun, fingers brushing the worn wooden handle. His heart pounded against his chest, while he caught glimpses of blinds closing, of lights dimming—even this neighborhood was usually awake at this hour with all the vices Stilwater had to offer. The developing silence only signaled that anyone with a brain knew their figures in the night, and what that fevered pace meant, given the _guests_ nipping at the heels of the outskirts.

As Julius rounded a corner, his hand outstretched. Troy slowed his pace to a halt, silencing his footsteps, gun in hand. Julius pushed his shoulder against the building, as heightened voices clamored not far off.   
“Misty Lane boys,” he murmured, raising his brows as he squinted through the dark. Troy looked between him and the obscured roadside with a harsh gaze, jaw flexing. Julius quietly exhaled, bemused. “There’s Vice Kings; they have girls with them, good call.”

Troy’s expression gave way to surprise, but only slightly, as he hardened his expression again. He tried to peer around the corner, but Julius’ extended hand stopped him with a pointed finger. He fidgeted in place, rolling his eyes—_he needed to see her face._  
Julius looked on, “They’re fighting,” he breathed suddenly. _“Shit.”_

Troy immediately pushed past him anyway, easing around to see for himself. Fists flying, screams and heated insults, foul mouths and bloodied faces, while a can of spray paint rolled away. The usual—_a bunch of stupid kids fighting over a chunk of concrete, _it made no difference to him. His fingers flexed around the revolver, eyes darting to Julius—the bastard was _watching,_ no doubt hoping they’d wipe each other out and save them the trouble.

_And to be honest, so did he._

He exhaled, a cloud of smoke coming with it, before he let the cigarette fall to the sidewalk. Stepping on it to extinguish the embers, he tilted his head at the sound of screeching tires. Both men whirled around as a crimson car came speeding down the street, tires skidding, smoke trailing behind. Engine revving,_ it was over in minutes_ as a spray of bullets and staccato firing rang out from a semi-automatic. Troy’s blood ran cold, jerking back and ducking behind the wall, dragging Julius down to cover with him. 

_“Carnales!”_ Troy snapped, gritting his teeth. “Fuck! Julius, we have to do something, this is bad—!“

“Easy, son. Stay put.” He told him, raising his chin. Troy’s heart pounded, a cacophony of gunshots popping amid screams and bloodshed, and his eyes went wide—_a sudden crash._ It shook the ground, crunched metal and backfiring deafening.

Breath heavy, he jumped to his feet, rushing out into the street. Some fifty yards away, pools of blood and bodies dotted the sidewalk, spray can now rolling across the road, distant screams frantic in a universal language. Another man had escaped the carnage, yellow-clad, promptly painting the _Westside Rollerz tag in Westside Rollerz brains_ with a single, prompt bullet. Troy jumped at the sudden execution, breath and spit catching in his throat as the other toppled to the ground in an instant.

Urgency found his legs, arms tense, fingers tightened around the gun as he raised his arm. The Vice King banger was moving on another, scooting away from him on the pavement. _He’d been hit by the car,_ trying to get away but unable to stand.

“Wait a minute, you crazy—“ Julius demanded, grabbing his shoulder, but he yanked away, shoving him off.

“He’s gonna’ kill him!“

“It’s too hot in there!"  
  
_He wasn't listening.“It’s a kid!”_

Troy's eyes darted to the injured young man on the ground, back to the asphalt, eyes wide in pleading. His executioner was the sort to stand with spread feet, stooped shoulders,_ thinking that gun was some extension of his own—_

“Wrong time, wrong place, dog.”  
  


_Motherfucker—_

  
He didn’t think, thumb clicking back the hammer. A controlled exhale punctuated the thundering of a single shot.

_  
A real big man, now._

  
He dropped to the sidewalk, all the tacky fluorescent yellow drenched in red, a tennis ball-sized hole in his chest. Brown eyes jumped from the body to the next target, but beyond the fires and the stench of blood, the street was clear.

As he walked on a few steps, he noticed his Julius had flown from his side and was instead rushing to the innocent’s aid.

“Julius!” he barked, but the other was playing savior, helping the kid to his feet.  
Shaking his head, he continued on, expecting to see another car full of _Carnales_ come screeching down the road while the bodies of their last lay slumped in the seats of the burning car.

His eyes caught the face of the woman from before, as she lay slumped against the wall.  
  
_Long gone._  
_  
Missing person found._  
  
The face of her grandmother and one-year-old brought a sickening, sinking feeling to his chest, and only made him grip the gun harder. Eyes stinging, dampening in the smoke, he sniffed before that gaze moved reproachfully to Julius.

He was carrying the kid, him limping along, leg marred to hell._ Hit by the car,_ he concluded—clipped his leg, sliced clean by the tacky metal bodywork. Catching his breath, he took lookout, shaking loose strands of hair from his face that stuck to his sweaty forehead. He kept the Shepard raised, gleaming in chemical fire. There was a smell, suddenly—the smoke thicker than it should be. It wasn’t long before the fire hit the gas tank, and the car exploded in a fury of heat and shrapnel behind them.

_“Christ—!”_ The blast unbalanced him, sending them all stumbling away to avoid an eruption of fire and spraying gasoline. They shuffled on, safely away, Troy covering his mouth and nose with the crook of an elbow. He immediately looked to the surrounding buildings, all appeared to be abandoned businesses on this street, but the fire department had better hurry.

The fire’s reflection caught in his eyes as he looked on while it burned. Something brought him to watch, swallowing down the knot in his throat, plumes of thick smoke barreling into the sky. The bodies of the _Carnales_ were little more than charcoal, at that point, still slouched in their seats. He backed away, eventually, hearing Julius murmur somewhere behind him. Turning, with a hardened heart, he saw him crouched beside their rescue.

  
The sight twisted his gut in a particular way, out of something he could only describe as disgust.  
The kid was sitting on the pavement, panic spread over his face while he caught his breath. His chest rose and fell, and sweat slicked his temples.

_Oddly calm, but give it time, it’ll sink in._

He was barely a man, and had a look about him he couldn’t quite place. A bit like a dog kicked too many times, but still hopeful and devoted enough to not have turned yet.

“You should be fine,” Julius soothed, as the kid took deep, controlled breaths through his teeth, desperately attempting to subdue the pain.

_Playin’ tough._

The reality was clear in his glossy eyes, his torn jeans soaked in blood just above the knee. Julius pulled the orange bandanna from the kid’s head, pressing it to his wound. “That don’t look so bad,” He breathed in a tone that would challenge his pride. “You should be fine.”  
The kid nodded, his head dipping, bringing his hands over the wound as Julius took his away. “That’s Troy,” he told him with a pointed thumb, over his shoulder. “You can thank him later.”

The kid looked to the blonde, brows raising, some bewilderment through the pain.

Suddenly on the spot, Troy locked his jaw, awkwardly waving his hand, which also still held the gun—_don’t point the piece at him, dumbass_—“Uh,” he managed, “_hey._”

Another nod his way—_don't say much, does he?  
_  
_Native. Stocky build, on the short side, with a square face and ruddy brown skin, deepened by long hours in the sun. Black eyes and hair, a patchy mustache and an even sparser beard, a mask of freckles on his cheeks. _ He couldn’t place the tattoos—_Aztec, or something_, but he couldn’t recognize if they were _Carnales_-affiliated or not.

_What were you doing out here, at this hour?_

He was committing that face to memory, a mental profile, alongside the hundreds he’d tucked away over the years, because he knew what the chances were. It would only be a matter of time before he wound up in trouble again. He hoped he was wrong. All the while, the thought as to why he was sitting there breathing, while the trafficked mother wasn’t, forced its way into his head.

_  
Because you were too slow to save both.  
Keep it together.   
  
_

Troy allowed a cautioned pause, one eye on the street, but the other on the young man still looking sheepishly his way.

“The Row ain’t safe no more, son. We got gangs fightin’ over shit that ain’t theirs.” Julius painted a righteous picture, _rehearsed, almost._ Troy was listening just as intently as the kid was, but then, as Julius spoke, they locked eyes for a moment; _it wasn’t quite gratitude._

It only ignited more anger in him, as he blinked thoughtfully his way.

_Killing kids on the sidewalk; Ben King’s MO, huh? And Julius has some kind of code of honor with that guy?_

Disdain kicked hard at his chest, and he couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. Turning his head sharply, he took to staring at the street while fidgeting in place.

“...and you in their way?" Julius continued, "They don’t care if you’re representin’ or not.”  
  
_Enough, already—_

“Julius,” Troy interjected, angrily. “This is no time to recruit.”

Turning sharply, “We need all the help we can get, son.”

“No," He snipped back, "_we need_ to get _our asses out of here._”  
  
The sirens wailed in the distance, echoing over the buildings; he could tell they were coming along the bridge. _He almost wished they’d show_, and it could all be blown apart now.  
  
_God, he needed a drink; or maybe something stronger._

“In a minute!” _There was that tone of his_. “Look, the Row’s got a problem. Come to the church when you want to be a part of the solution.”

With that, Julius rose to his feet, and Troy trailed him briskly. They hurried down the cracked asphalt, outrunning the smoke, turning a corner down an alleyway as they made for the church again.

“Why's _LC here?_” Julius spoke more to himself. “Lopez Sr. was never one to go on the hunt; seems his boys are getting nervous.”

“Yo, hey—“ Troy began, between breaths as he jogged, glancing over his shoulder nervously. “Is he gonna' be a'ite? You can’t just _leave him_—“

“Go back if you want.” Julius shook his head, sirens growing louder, joined by a fire truck. “The kid’ll be fine.”

“The cops are comin’, man—What if they think he was involved, what if they pick him up?“

“If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t stick around.”

“He was hurt bad Jules, I don’t—”

“Then it’s your problem.” Troy raised an eyebrow as they rounded another corner, jog slowing to an amble. Meeting his gaze, Julius’ condescending look curdled his blood. “You wanted to be a hero, so, you gotta’ learn that not everyone you save will be good, or strong enough. I don’t have time to babysit every basket-case we come across. If he makes it,_ he makes it,_ and if he’s got it in him, we’ll see him on our doorstep. If not, he got a second chance.”

“...Yeah.” Was all he could bring himself to say, before Julius stepped in his path. He avoided looking at him, _but not having to take a scolding was part of the dignity he signed away. _“Next time I want something done a certain way, I expect you to listen. I need you to have my back, especially now.”

“Yeah, man.” Troy muttered, scratching the back of his head. 

“You did good here tonight, son.” A hand came to rest on his shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze. The sudden warmth in his voice brought him to scoff, shifting awkwardly. “But you’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”  
Troy’s eyes raised to his, and Julius’ own were creased in a subtle pride. After a pat, he nudged him. “C’mon,” he murmured, reassuringly, fatigue creeping into his words. “Let's go home.”

Troy allowed a shuddering exhale from his nose. He paused before turning, expecting to see _him_ there, propped against the building—having followed them. No doubt watching aghast as the shock took hold.

He saw a dead street, studded in corpses, masked in a blanket of smoke out there some distance away.

Yet, there was no sign of the freckled young man.


	2. Newcomer

A loud buzzing, louder than it had any right to be, brought his eyes to open. He lay face down, _practically flattened,_ with his cheek to the pillow of his couch. He swallowed, bedraggled hair clinging to a forehead dampened by night sweats.

  
The sun hadn’t even risen yet, and the air was already dense and muggy. He found feeling in a numb arm, dragging his hand across the floor, the watch coming into view. He squinted, taking what felt like an eternity trying to gauge where the hands were in the dark room.  
  


5:00 A.M. 

Groaning, he turned his head to the other side, realizing the cushion was spotted in spit. Wrinkling his brow, he pushed himself up, wiping his cheek, laying his head on his forearm instead. 

_Head's still rocking_, he noted. The slightly cooler air nipped at bare shoulders, the window AC blowing canvas curtains around, struggling against _lakeside-bumfuck’s_ weather.  
  


_The real hero, here._   
  


The buzzing finally ceased, coming from his phone set out on the coffee table. The cover lit up, before dimming again—the room returning to accustomed darkness. He reached for it, blindly knocking his keys to the floor with a jingling thud. Trying to get some leverage to reach further, he pushed out a knee—banging it on the edge of the table. Grunting, he sat up and angrily pushed the table away with his foot, skidding across the wooden floor a few inches, only for a stack of paperwork to tip and careen across his living room. 

  
Finally finding the phone, he blinked and flipped it open, forcing his eyes to adjust. 

  
5/11/06/5:08 AM

_ “DO BETTER.” _

  
_He wanted to throw it,_ instead crunching it in his hand a moment with a white-knuckle grip, before calmly setting it down._ He’d barely slept_; a stiff neck, cottonmouth, and a body covered in a film of dried and reconstituted sweat was enough testament to that, no matter what he tried. But, he hadn’t stopped thinking, either. Stacks of files and paperwork spilled out everywhere, and coffee stains ringed a notebook. His glimpsed the silhouette of a paper folder, a mugshot paperclipped to the inside flap. He didn’t need to see the face, or any of the contents to be reminded of what it was. As awareness slowly ebbed back into his mind, he reached over, slowly, and closed the file with gentle fingers.

  
Leaning forward, arms tracked out over his knees, he inhaled deeply before his head sank into his hands.

  
A clock ticked somewhere in the room. He always hated that thing, but sleeping in total silence unnerved him. _ Not how I grew up,_ he’d tell himself. Stilwater could be eerily quiet; a staunch departure from crowded streets and traffic.

_Well, some things were the same. _

  
Sighing, he kept his palms over his eyes until he saw stars behind his lids, eventually lifting his head. Easing himself to stand, he shuffled across the floor with bare feet, avoiding the half-exposed tacstrip with instinctual precision as he entered his kitchen. Finding the light switch, a single bulb lit up over the stove, flickering while he filled the coffee pot with tap. The mindlessness involved gave him time to return to the present, the details of the previous hours illuminating with one hazy addition after another. As he scooped coffee grounds into the filter, he recalled—_three problems._

  
He watched the machine sputter and drip, blinking heavily, before turning on a heel. A shower was in order, to cool the headache._ It didn’t work._ He stood in the spray, head leaned against a sloped ceiling, too tall for the shower head to sit properly above him. Running his fingers through his hair, he let the barely-warm water cascade over his face—trying to convince his body to respond on four hours of sleep.

_Can't get away with that shit anymore._   
  


It was true; all-nighters didn’t sit as well with a 27-year-old metabolism as it did the previous year, or the one before that. _Then again_, he considered, as he peered through the clear curtain to the sink, to the bottles too bulky for the cabinet—_there was a lot less shit to deal with, then. _It sparked a sense of dread, but he shook it away. Turning the dial, he tracked wet footprints back into the kitchen, dabbing at his bloodshot eyes with a towel. Fatigue was still apparent in the bags settled in his sockets, only now they were reddened and puffy. Approaching the window and peeking between dusty blinds, nautical twilight greeted him.

Over the dark water, the horizon bled a thousand shades of pink and orange. Pillars of steam clouded overhead from the _Black Bottom_ factory district, a car alarm blaring somewhere in the distance. _Did it shut off, or did someone steal it in record-time?_ He couldn’t tell. Stilwater was sleepy, if nothing else. It was almost too hard to believe what lurked beneath. That was the trick, though, with these small towns. Cute, charming even, on the surface, but the real run-off of society always found their way there, or found the best ways to exploit it. 

He mused, _what’s that say about me, then? _

Still, seeing those streets alight that night, one week ago now, in a place where the people had little more option than to pick up arms or pick up their teeth, it stirred a defensiveness in him he never wanted to possess. Not for this place. The loneliness of dying on the street, just like that--nobody should face that possibility, and yet, it was one of the ways he knew he might go.

Strands of damp hair fell over his nose before he reflexively smoothed them back again, reaching for the finished pot of coffee. His breakfast of champions consisted of caffeine and a cocktail of horse pills, and he downed it all with several overly-conscientious gulps. Returning to his couch, having allocated pants for the day, he set to work. Juggling three gangs on top of the Saints required three separate piles of chaos on the table, and he knew this was only the beginning. Something had changed in Stilwater. Something had changed in Julius, leader of the Saints, visionary and vigilante...

_With every intention of finding out what. _   
  


_Why don’t you arrest them all now? His handler asked, over a year ago now, standing in the back room of an On the Fence pawnshop. Peering down at his new, fabricated identity, and an entire fabricated life waiting for him in a paper folder, he knew the answer--he’d seen the track record. Every time Julius fell on hard times, he made bail, evidence vanished, testimonies redacted, stories changed. The Chief told him to leave it alone. Do better.  
_  
Gritting his teeth, he pinched the bridge of his nose. The Vice Kings were his top priority with the women missing, but the _Carnales..._That thought struck another unpleasant chord. _That problem_ was still on the back-burner, and it’d been awhile since he’d tangoed with the Lopez family. Now, they were showing their faces.  
  


_It didn’t matter; one thing at a time. Chief Monroe wanted better?  
_ _If Stilwater was to be rid of corruption, there wouldn’t be a Stilwater, and that included City Hall._

The file from before still sat atop the designated stack for the Vice Kings. He stared at it, tapping his foot, reluctant to look. Eventually he brought it over, opening it with a clenched jaw. His eyes lingered on her face, the photo of the woman that died that night, caught in passerby fire. In two months, he hadn’t gotten any closer to chipping away at the missing persons list, and now a confirmed casualty found it. Tanya Winters was behind all of it, this was known fact, but finding her—let alone apprehending her—was another story. One he couldn’t do alone; one he was ordered to avoid. Chief Monroe wouldn’t budge, either. That discussion got him threats, delivered with that hardass, _constipated look on his face_. Nearly two years of active work almost ended at the mere mentioning.

_“Did you know some of our contraband's gone missing from evidence?” Monroe suddenly mentioned, offhandedly. He turned in his desk chair, deeply engaged in a feigned excitement. “I’m under the impression one of Stilwater’s finest might know about that. In fact, I might need to order a round of routine drug tests, just to be safe. Now, don't make that face, Detective Bradshaw, what else could it be? Or maybe,” he extended a finger, as if a bright idea had occurred, “we could all do the right thing, listen to orders, stay in our lane.” Hands extended, problem solved. “Right?” _   
  


He brought a cigarette to his lips, lighting it as the sun began to shine through the blinds. Bouncing his knee, he hissed smoke from between his teeth, tilting his head as he turned the pages. Photographs, likeness sketches, transcripts, testimonies. He became lost in previous reports, newspaper clippings, everything under the sun in town praising Benjamin King. The guy was a _hometown sweetheart_, appearing with SPD, the Mayor...the whole nine yards. There were charities, fundraisers, and donations, from the schools to the hospitals. But, there were also the disappearances, the drugs, the violence_...but that’s not him_, as Julius curtly informed,_ that’s his man, Warren. _  
  


He fiddled with the pen, left palm flattened over the paper pad while his right sifted through dates and colored tabs. His report was, at best, a paragraph. _It’s not like they mattered,_ he reminded himself, half-convinced his handler was taking that brown envelope and chucking it in the trash the minute he handed it over to her. At the very least, it was missing its date by several weeks. The VK stack would have to wait until he had enough patience to rifle through it for the umpteeth time. Instead he turned his attention to all that pertained to the_ Carnales_, the sour taste returning. Those papers were less organized, hand-written in worn, blue ballpoint, corners dog-eared and yellowed.

He took another long drag, smoke passing over his line of vision before he waved it away. As he reached for the top file, a generic musical jingle rang out. Looking around, he heard chiming from somewhere, before realizing it was coming from beneath him. Cigarette between his lips, he raised the cushion, digging his cellphone out from the wedge.

  
Julius.  
  


Pressing the button, “...Hello?” 

_ “Where the hell are you?” _

“I just got up,” he hummed in a faked, fatigued voice as he scratched his forehead.

A heavy breath, _“It’s about noon.”_

Troy caught glimpse of his watch—_shit, seriously?_ “Yeah, uh,” he drawled nonchalantly, “I had a long night.” 

_ “Did you fuck up?” _

“No, man,” Troy hissed suddenly, sharply, disgust seizing his words as he fought it down. “I had a _girl over_, not like it’s _any of your fuckin’ business--.” _ _ Is that what cheap weed and paperwork’s called, now? _

_“Get your shit together.”_ Julius interrupted._ “I need you down at the church.” _

“Why, what’s goin’ on?” He asked, unable to hide the sternness moving into his tone. Glancing at the floorboards, he took another drag as Julius paused.

_ “I’m getting the crew together. I’ve got a plan, and I want you here when I tell it.” _

“A’ite,” he said, returning the cushion to the couch, “just—uh, gimme’ a couple minutes.” 

_“Fine.”_ He said in his usual blunt way._ “See you in a few.” _  
  


Troy took the phone from his ear, peering at it, before hitting the worn key with a light beep. His lips formed a line, rubbing his eyes.   
  
Yanking a T-shirt over his head, he buttoned a plum shirt on top, donning his gold necklace and bracelet. He fought with his hair, ultimately giving up. The .44 _Shepard_ waited from the table, and tucking it into his belt clip, he pocketed extra bullets—_Let’s hope they won’t be needed._ Stepping into sneakers, he locked up, descending the stairs into a baking parking lot. His car waited, a plum-colored, shimmering Vegas, fairly obvious among the _ghetto starships_ lining the lot. Nobody dared break his windows, though; the purple spoke for itself. _But for how long? _

Unlocking it, he climbed in, the seats already scorching to the touch. He avoided searing himself on the seatbelt clasp, keeping his arm raised and starting the ignition. It roared to life, settling into a pleasing idle and stirring some giddiness in him; it’d been far too long since he took it for a proper spin._ A nice day like this, an open window, going 65 or so, with no place to be?_ It was tempting to just keep going, but—

_‘Oh yeah,’_ he thought, _‘I’m on a goddamn island.’ _

Shaking the daydream away, he found the shifter and turned down the road.  
  


The drive wasn’t far; Mission Beach wasn’t a painful place to live, after all. _He could walk, but the drive was nice._ The streets blurred by, not particularly hurried, the rumble of his car drawing the occasional passerby stare, or nod. He couldn’t exactly call himself a people-person, and getting to know the locals beyond cataloging them in his mind seemed like a waste of time. A week had passed since that night, and local fuss calmed by morning, the street cleaned before anyone got up for work. It was just another day in Stilwater. He thought about the casualties, and the missing woman, but eventually his mind drifted back to the dark eyes of the freckled young man—at the wrong place at the wrong time. _If he knew what was good for him,_ he felt himself concluding,_ he’d take it as divine intervention and get the hell out of this town._

As he neared the church, pulling up along the sidewalk on the empty street, he peered over the hedges and the wall to the cemetery. Every Saint to their name was gathered, and once put all in one spot like that_, they sure as hell weren’t much. _Killing the engine, he sat in the seat a moment, reaching for a cigarette. He watched them chat, horse around, and drink with an overwhelming wafting smell of pot. The majority were young and hailed from the Row, some new faces, all full of piss and vinegar and eager to prove themselves. Humble, though; that part would separate them from the rest.  
  


His door creaked and shut with a heavy slam as he crossed the concrete, already roasting in the humid air and beaming sun directly overhead. He lit his cigarette, taking a long drag and climbing the stairs, joining the rabble in the cemetery. He noticed Dex standing with folded arms, his keen eyes settled off into space, as Johnny enthusiastically arm-wrestled some poor bastard whose entire day was about to be ruined. He was a good kid, though, so long as he was pointed in the right direction in his path of chaos. Dex was something else, _a cheeky little shit_, mostly, but his own cowardice would keep him from ever being too much of a problem.

Standing at the foot of the church stairs, he leaned against a wall, smoking and observing. Julius was taking his sweet time, for whatever it was he wanted to announce. As he contemplated going inside to find him, he caught a glimpse of a figure crossing the street from the sidewalk.

_Sagging pants, muscling through a limp, braided hair covered in a rust-colored bandanna._   
  
He unfolded his arms, craning his neck to see over the crowd—_no fucking way. _The freckled newcomer moved around the corner of the cemetery wall, nobody noticing him approaching as all turned their attention to the church’s doors. Troy looked on earnestly, equal parts dread and relief. They locked gazes across the crowd, Troy’s tense expression mirrored by the young man’s brows raising as he realized he’d been spotted. Just as he was about to speak, to call out and confront him, Julius was behind Troy— hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Startled, he moved aside, Julius stepping into view of the gathering.

“Every motherfucker here knows what we need to do.” He began, silence settling over the group. “Now, those bitches be ridin’ around here, thinkin’ they own these streets. I don’t care what flags they flyin’—_Rollerz, Carnales, Vice Kings…_”   
  


As he spoke, Troy glanced at the young man standing there from the corner of his eye. He stuck out like a sore thumb, orange plaid and cargos in a sea of purple._ This won’t be pretty_. At the same time, the kid held himself with some kind of naive confidence—shoulders squared, chin raised. _A sphere of belonging around him, controlled eagerness in his eyes._  
  


An ironclad resolve moved into Julius’ voice, delivered with conviction. “We about to lock this shit down right now.”   
The Saints erupted into cheers, each disjointed bark more aggressively optimistic than the last. 

“Fuck yeah!” Johnny added with authoritative volume, the young hothead turning to see how his charm had resonated, gaining some nods, before he noticed the newcomer.   
  
Troy fidgeted; _great. _“...Who the fuck’s this guy?”

“Troy and I found him,” Julius enlightened, as Troy balled his fists. He watched the kid, back straightening and eyes narrowing into a cautious display of machismo. He and Johnny looked at each other, the latter scanning him head to toe with a challenging intrigue. He teased with an arched brow and a smirk, towering over the other. “We wanna’ see if he’ll ride with us.”   
  


_We?’_  
He knew his aversion was personal. He didn’t want to see him again; he wanted someone to have gotten away. He didn’t want to recall that night, and it was written all over the kid, from the look in his eyes to the limp he carried.   
  
At that moment, annoyance stirred, perhaps even some kind of resentment.   
  


“Julius, if he wants to roll with the Saints he’s gotta be canonized!” Johnny exclaimed, incredulously, bringing Julius to raise a brow.

“Hey, he’s right, Julius.” Troy interjected, speaking over the murmuring crowd._ Forgot your own law of the land, old man?_ “Everyone had to do it.”

Julius glanced at him, hesitating, but took Troy’s voucher as all he needed.  
  
Turning toward the newcomer, “You ready for this, playa?”

  
They looked on as the kid cracked his neck, widening his stance and raising his fists.  
_B__arfighting only worked if he could deliver on the brutality._

  
Leaning against the wall and folding his arms, Troy watched intently. The guys that were closing in on him were a _foot taller_, but he was a stocky thing, _built_, but not like some gym rat. _No, the kid’s worked hard in his life. _

_He might have a chance._   
  


They goaded him, some whistled, urging him to throw a punch. He wouldn’t, retreating a few steps, keeping his fists hovering beneath his chin. 

“_Shit..._he’s gonna run,” one teased.

“Oh, yeah.” Another murmured, cracking his knuckles. The kid backed away, still, until his heel brushed the statue of the weeping angel. He glanced at them, before looking to Julius, watching stoically, and Troy, reserved in the shade. 

“Don’t look at em’, lookit me.” 

“Why don’t you run home to _mami.”_ One very large, sweat-shirt clad, Midwestern-potato suggested. “Tell her_ I said hi.”   
  
_

His nose wrinkled, teeth baring, and he swung—_first punch comes from the kid—_landing a sickening _smack_ against the jaw of the other. The unsuspecting Saint fell flatly on his ass, stunned and throwing out an arm to brace the tombstone. The crowd erupted into laughter and jeers, chanting now for his defeat. The punch hurt the kid’s hand, he could tell, wrist buckled and he stumbling away, attempting to side-step, but the injury greatly inhibiting the leg’s ability to hold weight. Knocking into another, he swung out, catching him in the ribs, but it did little against the much bigger man.

Troy grimaced, his brows furrowing. 

_He stood in that same courtyard, faded and winded, falling back on boxing, avoiding holds lest he give himself away—all under the watchful eye of Julius on the stairwell, much like now. He was far more interested and daresay amused, then, at how he nearly beat a guy to a pulp; maybe the old man grew a conscience over the years. _

Looking up, his temporary disdain vanished in a jolt of worry. _Shit._

They had him pinned down, trading punches, the kid getting knocked hard over the back of the head and sending him staggering into the statue. He grabbed onto it, shaking the dizziness away, but before he could orient, he was snatched up into a choke-hold. Troy moved away from the wall, gritting his teeth.

“Call 'em off!” Julius glanced at him, extending a hand to signal him to wait. Troy bounced his leg, too anxious to argue, looking on. 

It hurt to watch; several punches to the gut, to the ribs—_he took them like a champ—_before he was released and set dropping to a knee. It was a disaster, in minutes; they piled on him with such force, Julius could see the blood-lust welling up in them. The primal urge to keep punching long after the target was down.  
  


They kicked and berated him, the crowd growing rowdier and _angrier. _

“That’s enough!” Julius demanded, his voice carrying. They ceased, backing away, calming their nerves and wiping the sweat from their faces, laughter and shouting dissipating. The kid lay face down on the pavement, head tucked into his arm, back raising with shuddering breaths.

_   
His pride probably hurt a lot worse. _   
  


Troy watched as all stood around, quietly, before he hissed to himself and urgently descended the stairs. Crossing the sidewalk and coming to his side, he shot a glare at Dex, fists balled, having partook in his own share of the beating. Ignoring him, he crouched beside him, lifting him by the shoulders gingerly and attempting to see his face.

“_Hey—hey man, you a’ite?_” The kid raised his head, lips bloodied, cheeks reddened and bruising already setting in. Troy exhaled, “Give him some air,” he snapped at the others, who backed away. “C'mon,” he told him quietly, as he offered a hand. “On your feet; we all went through that.”

The kid winced, biting back the pain, his arm shakily raising. He took his hand in a sure grip, inhaling through his teeth as he braced and brought his good leg under him. Troy heaved him up, him wavering dizzily before he balanced himself. They peered at one another, the kid’s dry lips settling into a line, dark eyes calm and steady, breathing through a bloodied nose.

Troy blinked, swallowing as his chest panged with guilt. Catching a glimpse over his shoulder, he quickly let go of him, backing away as Johnny leaned in.

“Blood in, blood out.” He murmured, shooting him a coy look from beneath his shades before Julius stepped between them, extending a fist, the kid raising his own.

“Welcome to the 3rd Street Saints.” Julius’ proud smirk played on his lips, gesturing for the crowd to gather around again.   
  


Troy puffed on his cigarette, fidgeting, heart pounding. He watched as the kid smiled, subtly, Julius’ approval bringing him to beam with confidence, despite his aching ribs and numb fists. He wiped the blood from his nose, sniffing a few times, shoulders relaxing as the Saints surrounded their newest member.

“Let’s get down to business,” Julius continued, a twinge of weariness moving into his voice, “If we’re serious about taking back the Row, we gotta’ let those mothers know what time it is.” He paused, looking to each of the members individually, eyes resting at the newcomer’s as he nodded. “Now, you break it down,” he continued, “and it’s all about respect. Get enough of it, and they’re gonna back off, and we’re gonna’ move right on in.”   
  


Troy hung his head, staring at his shoes and the ashes that dropped to the sidewalk. 

“We got some friends in town that could use some help. Give em’ a hand. ‘Course, you can always drop a motherfucker wearing the wrong flags. So long as word gets out the Saints are on the Row, I don’t give a damn how you do it. You feel me?”  
  


There was a collective nod of understanding among the Saints, as they shifted, banding into their cliques, volume returning to their numbers. The large individual the new kid punched beforehand gave him a playful nudge, his expression apologetic. Troy watched as they appeared to make amends, the new kid dipping his head, before Julius tapped him on the back again.

“What’d I tell ya?” He mused. “I knew he’d be back.” 

“...Yeah.” Troy muttered. “Got his ass kicked.” 

“Says a lot about a man that can take a hit, not just dish em’ out, wouldn’t’ya say?” 

Troy scoffed, “Yeah, a’ite—is that some ‘turn the other cheek’ shit?” 

“Far from it.” He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a money clip and taking a $100 bill from it. “Give this to the kid, huh? And go get him set up with what he needs; doubt that boy’s ever held a piece in his life.”  
  


Troy sighed, taking it. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the kid still standing there, but _he'd wandered off_. He scanned the cemetery, the street—catching him limping back on the sidewalk he'd come from, head held a bit higher than before. 

“H-hey!” He called, Julius chuckling to himself as he retreated into the shade, Troy tossing his cigarette to the cement and jogging after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a very long time, and is more akin to the length to expect of future additions. It took awhile to establish the tone of the fic, so I hope you enjoy it.


	3. Laundry List

“Hey!” Troy called, as he rounded the corner into the parking lot. A long-abandoned heap of rust melted into the asphalt, overshadowed by a dilapidated building. He took in a heavy breath, grimacing at the open dumpster’s fumes. Flies and gnats buzzed, and swatting them away, he quickly tailed him. “_New Guy!” _he called again, “Hold up a sec’!_” _

Sweat pricked his back already; wearing layers wasn’t his brightest idea. After a moment the newcomer turned on his heel, peering at him with a mixture of confusion and concern. He awkwardly pressed his back against a car he held the keys to, hands at his sides, eyes dropping to his shoes. 

Closing their distance, Troy huffed a moment, hands coming to rest on his hips. “You can’t just take off like that, a’ite, you need set up with some shit first.” Running a hand through his hair, wiping the sweat from his forehead, he collected his thoughts.

“...Now, there’s a _Friendly Fire_ down the street, get you your own starter cap. After that, we’ll look into gettin’ you a _phone_. You got a phone--er, a burner? Somethin’ _only_ for this sorta’ thing?” He was making circles with his fingers. It wasn’t _fidgeting; _he liked to think it was helping to illustrate his point better. Turning on his heel, he stopped short when he noticed the newbie hadn’t moved, still staring at the ground, as if the wide crack in the pavement were the most interesting thing in the world_. _

_Silence. _

Perplexed, brows knitting, Troy shifted his weight to his other foot “...What’sa matter?” 

Shaking his head, he swiped his wrist across his nose, still bloodied, but not sure what to do with his hands. Troy paused, peering at his broad, swollen cheekbone, busted lip, bruised knuckles, and back again, before a constricted sigh left his lips. 

“You should--uh,” he stammered clumsily, “get cleaned up, first.” Still saying nothing, he appeared to shrug off the concern, before Troy leaned in with somewhat of an aggressive dip. “Hey, I’m_ talkin’ to you._” The newbie looked up at the sudden sternness in his voice. Troy raised his brows, enunciating his words as he kept eye contact. “Nobody’s gonna’ respect you covered in your own blood, a’ite? Keep yourself looked after.” 

_Something about seeing this kid bleeding twice in one week was starting to press a nerve._ Hearing how his own voice sounded, he straightened his back, softening his tone. 

_“..._How’s uh, the _leg doin’_, too? Was pretty _bad, _y’know.” 

Brows quirking, the newbie looked up at him, partially astounded. He sniffed, hand raising to wipe more blood from his nose, before he tucked it at his side again. Turning his foot, he shrugged, with some reassurance. “...A’ite,_” _Troy muttered, “And you’re _sure? _Can’t have you hobblin’ around. If you’re hurt you’re only gonna’ slow this whole thing down. Best to wait til you’re healed before you go chargin’ in.” The newbie shook his head, with some reinforced conviction, reassuringly. “...’kay. Well, then,” he gestured to the car behind them, only now getting a good look at it. 

The old Bootlegger sat in the shade, factory orange paint worn down, having spent many summers in a backyard somewhere. It didn’t look like much, but he squinted in the sun at the rollbar, clearly visible behind tinted glass. The back tires, old and worn, were painfully _bald. _An antique, and a good one. _He wondered how it would fare against his Vegas. _

“Nice car.” He somewhat blurted, absentmindedly, bringing the newbie to raise his head with some amount of astonishment flashing in his reflective eyes. 

Eventually he glanced at him, realizing _he was spacing out_. This kid was so quiet, he could forget he was even standing there. “Uh--” he clarified abruptly, “that _is your car_, right?’ 

The newbie nodded once, addled, a brow quirking in response. He watched Troy work his jaw as he searched for words. “It, uh...runs, too?” 

The smug grin creasing the newbie’s cheeks was _unexpected_, as he turned around with some attitude_, _opening his unlocked door. He nodded to the other side, inviting, as he climbed in. Troy looked behind him, before shuffling around the back end, coming to the passenger door. He leaned down, peeking through the window, to which he received an amused beckoning in response--raised brows and a reserved smirk. 

Sighing to himself, he opened the door, stepping over the rollbar, and sinking into the comfortable, worn leather seat. Warm, but not enough to grill him alive, the smell of leather, rubber, metal, and faint gasoline was deeply _nostalgic. _

Awkwardly patting his knees, he squinted through the windshield, directing loosely with his chin. “There’s a gas station down the road next to the Freckle Bitch’s. ‘Less you wanna’ swing by your place and take care of that.” Pausing, he winced, noting a particularly aggressive cut on the other’s eyebrow. _It was a marvel all those piercings hadn’t shredded his face in the fight. _

Shaking his head, the new guy placed the keys in the ignition, sheepishly pointing a thumb over his shoulder. 

Troy wasn’t sure what he meant, glancing at the dashboard before he caught the gist, turning slightly. He couldn’t reasonably see without twisting his entire body, and doing so, his eyes scanned the backseat. 

Blankets and a pillow, a duffel bag and some cans and plastic bottles on the floorboard, a helmet, a pair of boots--nothing remarkable. He chewed the inside of his cheek a moment, before realizing. 

“...Oh_.” _Was all he could mutter, as he turned back around, slowly, pressing his back to the cushion. Ears burning, he bit his lip instead, now, looking out the window. 

_Jackass. _

_“_You’re uh...sleepin’ in your _car, _man_?” _He peered at his pensive face, his freckled, russet complexion caught in the mirror’s glare. “...For how long?” 

Blinking, the new guy eventually shrugged, as if it didn’t bother him, but the embarrassment prevailed. Troy clicked his tongue, eyes dropping to his lap, “Well, those days are over. You’re runnin’ with the Saints now. Give it a couple days; we’ll hook ya up.” 

Turning to him, his gaze unwavering, he searched for the break in his words—the cue that he didn’t mean it. 

Troy caught a glimpse of him, met his eyes, and quickly averted his own. When the other didn’t follow suit, he looked at him again, thoughtfully. 

“...I’m serious,” he insisted with a shrug of his shoulders, “I’m not yankin’ your chain here, we’ll get you a place to crash. A’ite? What kind of work can anybody do from a backseat, anyhow?” 

_That sounded bad. _

The new guy quirked a brow, a hint of a grin starting, but he stifled it. 

_Yeah, shit—he caught that. _

_“_Just—“ he huffed, turning to face the road again. “Go wherever uh, where you need to. Sink, and uh—what’s that shit, _iodine_.” _What? “_Whatever.” 

The newbie took that as a go-ahead, turning with a hint of a smile still dusting his lips. 

Working the key, the engine turned over with a thunderous roar--clean, cab jostling lightly with the idling engine, as he pumped the gas a moment. Troy cleared his throat, craving a cigarette, but unsure if he should ask. 

Eventually the newbie worked the shifter, looking up at the mirror as he backed up. Troy sighed to himself as he rolled down the window, propping an elbow at the edge, before he noticed a cluster of trash cans steadily approaching in the side mirror. He thought nothing of it, until they grew _closer-- _

“Wh--hey _hey **hey!**” _

He slammed the brakes, jerking Troy forward into the dash, a crash of dented aluminum bins toppling over to follow. 

The new kid grimaced, looking out the window over his arm to check the damage, trash and a rolling lid in the street. Thinking nothing of it, he shifted, putting the car in drive. Troy scooted back into his seat, heart pounding. 

“What the _fuck, man?” _

He pressed on the gas, swerving out of the lot, catching the curb on the right side. The car jumped, Troy throwing out his arm, gripping the padded rollbar, left hand fumbling for the seatbelt. _Damn it, they’re the 4-point type, up the crotch and shit— _

“Where’d you_ learn to fuckin’ drive?_”He shouted, voice cracking as he worked the buckles across his waist, “slow the_ fuck down _this is a residential street_\--stop!” _

The new kid’s foot slammed suddenly again, at a stop sign. A passerby screamed, narrowly missing the hood. 

“¿_Tratas de matarme, cabrón_?” He shouted as he kicked the front bumper, before stumbling onto the sidewalk. “_¡Te partiré el culo!”_ The newbie flipped him off, leaning out the window, bringing Troy’s jaw to almost hang slack. 

“¡Inténtalo!” He barked back, mockingly, startling Troy more than the pedestrian, “¡Veamos qué pasa!_ Eh?_” 

His voice was controlled, mellow, but clear--_not what he was expecting_. Troy locked his jaw, sinking down in his seat. 

_Don’t make me shoot somebody today, kid. _

The angry pedestrian was still yelling—rapid-fire, he couldn’t catch it--pointing at _him_ now through the windshield. 

“_Our bad!” _Troy managed, the other taking it as even _more_ insulting, still hollering at him as he threatened to throw his groceries, now directing his entourage at the passenger side. “Fucking _go, _already!” He snapped.

The newbie grunted, spinning the wheel and accelerating down the road. Troy pressed his back into the seat, hands gripping the harness. _Car’s got some serious torque. _

“So, you _do _talk,” Troy announced, shooting a glare his way. “I just can’t understand a damn word of it.” 

The newbie puffed, shaking his head. Once they’d reached the main street with no turns or stops, he appeared to abide by the speed limit--more or less--and stay in his lane. It settled Troy’s heart rate for a few minutes, although he still bounced his knee, fingers tapping the straps. 

_Small town, muscle car with bald street tires_..._Rollbar, the seatbelts? This thing was more than a hand-me-down for a backwoods teen. _The slicks were probably in the trunk. 

He peered at him, his expression what he could only describe as _bored, _but he recognized that glint in his eyes_._ It all alluded to one thing. 

_Fuck it, I’m smoking_. 

He was reaching into his pocket, taking a cigarette between his lips directly from the pack, other hand still gripping the strap. 

“You got a license_?_” He barked over the engine, the new kid _chuckling,_ so light it was barely audible. 

Troy squinted, as he pressed his lips into a hard line. “No license? They let you fucking _race_ without a license? You even got a pink slip for this thing?” The newbie raised an eyebrow, amused, but he gave no reply. “This ain’t the _dragstrip_, kid, someone’s gonna get hurt--probably _me.”_

Saying even more of nothing--_of course--_they neared the gas station, turning with a heavy palm. The car bounced up into the lot, yet somehow ambled into a parking space relatively straight. _Between the lines, anyway. _

Troy exhaled, slow and controlled, through his nose. Digging in his pocket for his lighter, he flicked it, lighting his cigarette and observing the newbie from the corner of his eye. He was rummaging around the cab, searching for something, before promptly digging change out of the backseat. 

Troy nearly rolled his eyes, inhaling a long drag, hissing smoke out the window. 

“...I’ll be here.” He mumbled, shaking his head as stared off at nothing, the slam of a door to follow. “Hey hey, wait—“ he called, as the newbie turned on his heel. Troy waved him over to the window, which he obliged. Coming to the window, he resumed his sheepish demeanor, that _kicked puppy look._ “...They sell phones and shit in there with the prepaid minute card, things.” Searching his pocket, he took out two $20’s and a $10. “Here, take this and grab one, you’re gonna’ need it.” 

The newbie took the money, stuffing it in his pocket, before nodding demurely. Troy watched him limp across the lot toward the building and pull on the handle a few times. Ducking his head, he looked through the glass to double-check it was open. When another customer left, he stood there, realizing it was a _push-_door, before disappearing inside. 

Troy closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

_Can’t wait to see how he handles a gun. _

Flicking ashes from a limp wrist propped out the window, his cigarette was reduced to a nub by the time the newbie returned. Strolling out, plastic bag in hand, he held his head a bit higher than before. Climbing back in, Troy watched as he sat down. Appearing refreshed, a strip of white bandage butterflied his eyebrow, blood rinsed from his collar. His cropped blue-black hair dangled loosely just above his shoulders, free from the braids and tucked behind studded ears. Reaching into the bag, he _smiled_, and held out a can of pop, along with the change. 

Momentarily preoccupied with the gap in the other’s front teeth, his eyes fell to the offered can—_root beer, nice--_before stiffly taking it. “...Thanks, man,” he fumbled over his words, popping the tab and putting the wad of $1’s in his pocket, “...Not sure how I’ll keep from _wearing it,_ though, way you drive.” 

The new guy smirked again, leaning down, scooping up his hair in the bandanna and re-tying it. Double-checking his injuries in the rear-view, he gently palpated around his cheekbone. Satisfied, giving his nose another rub--no blood, he turned the key and starting the car again. 

_Homeless kid’s buying you shit, now. Get this over with, for fuck’s sake._

“So...you—uh, got a _name_?” The newbie was turning around, this time, to back up. Looking over his shoulder, he avoided massacring any trash bins. Troy nursed his pop, swallowing as silence loomed. “...that a ‘no’? You gotta have a _name.” _

Shrugging, he avoided his gaze as he shifted into drive again. Troy eventually noticed the nervousness in his grip on the wheel, his eyes cast ahead at the road. 

_Shy. _

“Uh...I get it,” he assured. “Don’t sweat it, New Guy. You, uh, know _my_ name.” He paused, tapping his knee awkwardly. “..._Troy_, in case you didn’t know—er, or didn’t remember.” 

Glancing at him, the New Guy’s face held a reserved grin. “...And I’m not sayin’ that so you have to _reciprocate_, just figured you’d want to know. Or, well, maybe not; it’s not like you _talk._ Not like there’s—there’s nothin’ _wrong_ with that. I’m just sayin, uh—_fuck it,” _he waved his hand. “Head to Friendly Fire; it’s at the corner of Harrowgate and Mission Beach, just down from the Church—right around the corner. Can’t miss it.”

He occupied his mouth with his drink, hoping maybe it’d stop the slew of bullshit falling out of it. 

_Tired. _

The shop was a quick drive away, and the New Guy found it, more or less, without difficulty. Some direction was required, revealing some unfamiliarity with the Row. It brought to question why he was so quiet. It gnawed away at his patience, somehow, despite reasoning that it was a non-issue. Shyness be damned, not speaking could be dangerous--but he proved he could run his mouth when needed. Perhaps Julius appreciated the usefulness of a recruit that never asked questions. 

The New Guy parked on the curb, Troy untangling himself from the seatbelt and exiting the car. With a courteous slam of the door, he waited, watching the tram pass overhead, as the New Guy joined him at his side. 

He took the door by the handle, opening it, waiting—before the New Guy awkwardly ducked his head and stepped into the reprieve of air conditioning. 

_Not thinking for oneself, or possessing the means to make decisions, would get this kid killed. _As he followed behind and stood in the lobby, he exhaled briefly—_and you’re about to arm him. _

“Hello?” Troy called, the door closing behind him, another jangle of the bell. “He—“ 

“Yes—can I help you?” A blonde woman weaved out from the back room, approaching the counter with an oddly chipper disposition. The New Guy looked around, to the walls, the shelves, the smell of old carpet and linoleum tile, and the strangely stale scent of worn steel. 

“I need set up—pistol and some ammo,” Troy started, as he leaned on the glass counter. Crossing his arms over it, he looked down through the glass to the menagerie of weapons. Clicking his tongue, he raised dark eyes. “...for under $200.” 

“Well, that doesn’t leave much,” she chimed, bringing his brow to raise. “Maybe try On the Fence?” 

“No, here’s fine. Just show me what you got.” _The last thing he needed was to bring the new recruit to his handler’s cover job. _“A pistol would be best. Semi.” 

“Sure thing,” she said, before disappearing into the back room again. Troy drummed his nails on the glass, before glancing over his shoulder at him, still wandering around aimlessly and looking at the wall posters. 

“You ever fire a weapon before?” 

Looking up, he met his eyes, before meandering a bit sheepishly. So-so, _figures. _“You really gotta get with it, kid. Hope you’re a quick learner.” 

He stood there, blankly and unmoving, before she returned, carrying a silver pistol in a tack cloth. Setting it down, “Alrighty then, this is a VICE9. $100 and it’s yours.” 

Picking it up, he turned it in his hand. _Pretty standard, however—_He locked back the slide, but upon tilting his wrist, it slid right back into battery. 

“...Christ,” Troy remarked, eyes raising to her, as she stood with her hands clasped awkwardly. “When was this thing made? ‘87?” 

The new guy raised his head, pondered, but resumed his dawdling. 

“Sounds about right,” she confirmed. “Most of the time, at this location, we buy our stock from the armory—and, well, those have seen their fair use.” 

_Hmph—suddenly the station makes sense. _

“It’s held together with tape and gumbands,” he set it back down on the counter, barrel pointed away from them both. “Don’t you got anything else?” 

“It won’t be $100.” 

“..._Fine, _it’s fine.” She smiled smugly. _Damn it. _“I need something that’s going to _function._” 

As she returned to the back room, Troy rubbed his eyes, turning around to peer at the new guy again. “How much you got on ya’?” 

Before he could shrug somewhat hopelessly, Troy realized the pointlessness of his question. “...never mind,” he heard the click of her heels on the linoleum again as she brought a much newer model. This VICE9 had a silver chrome finish. 

“Here we are,” repeating the earlier monotony, “this is $150. See for yourself.” Taking it, he repeated his inspection, checking the sights as well, all while the obnoxious little price tag dangled from the grip. 

“It’s fine,” he said, as the slide snapped cleanly. “I’ll take it.” 

“Excellent,” she smiled, as she turned to the display wall behind her, “can’t go wrong with it. It is a standard issue, after all.” 

Rolling his eyes a little—_you already sold it, lady, _a thought occurred to him. 

“You carry snap caps?” 

A short chortle, as she crouched, “yes…?” 

“Some of them, too. Please.” 

“Well, since you said _please,” _she teased, as she slid open a cabinet door. 

_Oh, boy. _

After what felt like forever, the ammo and snap caps managed to find their way onto the counter and subsequently into a plastic bag. She set out a clipboard next. “I’ll need to see some ID.” 

Digging for his wallet, he flipped it open to his _very fake ID_ _and very fake surname. Johnson, seriously? _The New Guy craned his neck a bit, curious, as he caught a glimpse of it.

_Florida license? _

“OK,” She smiled, “long way from home, aren’t you? What brings you to Stilwater?” 

“Family,” Troy said flatly.

“Bet you’re used to this kind of heat.” 

“M-hmm,” He hummed, hanging his head impatiently.

“The winters are a doozy, though—“ 

“I’m in a hurry.” He interjected. 

“..._Oh_. Sorry.” She rang it up, tone dropping. “$220 even.” 

Taking Julius’ charity and some of his own, he handed the cash over. The exchange of money was always beyond _strange—_all that pleasantry, all that bullshit, for three seconds of the bottom line. _Could’ve skipped all that. _The new guy, however, grimaced as she thumbed through the bills with her manicured nails. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Troy told him, as he could feel his eyes on his back, “...couple hundred bucks’ll seem like chump change in no time.” 

They left the store, supplies in tow, and climbed back into the _Bootlegger. _

“Alright, so,” Troy began as he was taking the gun out from the box, “technically you aren’t allowed to have a loaded gun in the vehicle at any time. Or on you, really.” 

The New Guy watched his brown eyes as they lingered on each of the components. Despite the energy with which he spoke, they were fatigued--blue bags riming them. “Open carry is legal here, but only if it’s registered. Best you keep it out of sight, OK? Not worth taking chances. You get busted with this thing, and you’re getting dragged in, no questions asked.” He paused, “...it’s a misdemeanor, but, that’s how they make their money. You’re uh...,” His voice trailed off. _Nobody’s going to miss you. _"...What I’m getting at, here, is--stay away from the cops. You get pulled over—well, _don’t.”_ He was wiping the fingerprints from the steel with the corner of his undershirt. “...and if you _do_ get caught, you call me.” 

_ Keep it together. _

The new guy gave a single nod, before Troy looked up, “...which reminds me—phone.” Setting the gun back down in the box, he reached behind him for the plastic bag from earlier. Opening the packaging, he got to work setting it up.

“...This is only for Saints shit, got it? The whole point of these is to keep it cheap and simple. If you need something to call grandma on, get yourself another one.” He flipped open his own phone, clicking through the contacts, copying them. After dialing, and activating the minutes, he held it out to him. “You’re all set. Everybody you’ll be needing to talk to is in that, including one of my crew. You get stuck someplace, and you can’t reach me for whatever reason, give her a call.” He pointed to a contact in particular. 

_‘Wheel Woman’?_

With a puzzled smirk, the New Guy nodded, pocketing it. “Now, don’t go buggin’ us. This is for business. Keep it short and sweet,” glancing at him, “...though, ya don’t strike me as a chatterbox, for _some reason_, so those minutes will probably roll over.” 

Raising an eyebrow, the New Guy huffed. 

Troy was patting his thighs again, pondering, before the thought resumed. “Gun, right.” Staring down at his lap for a moment, hands out as he paused, he eventually scratched his beard. “...So, we’ve got a little bit of a problem. The shooting range costs money, and I’ve got maybe twenty-somethin’ bucks left.” He shrugged bony shoulders, lids heavy, the afternoon heat showing in his reddened face. “That doesn’t leave us a lot of options.” 

The New Guy’s mouth twisted, and he reached for the bag. 

“Nuh-uh,” Troy recoiled, blocking it with his arm. “Not until you practice. A’ite? You’re not shootin’ yourself--or _me_.This isn’t a toy.”

He raised his brows, the New Guy peering at him quietly, black eyes falling to the space of seat between them. “We can’t be shootin’ within city limits. Obviously, people do it, that’s why we’re here.” He interjected, before continuing the thought, “but, I don’t want good Samaritans calling the cops on our asses when I’m tryin’ to teach you what’s what. That means we’ll need to get out of the city.” 

At the mentioning, the New Guy’s eyebrows raised, white teeth flashing in an excited grin. Caught off guard, Troy fidgeted, “What--what’s that look?” 

The New Guy lifted his foot, folding his leg over his knee and pointing to the dried mud on his shoe before lowering it back down to the pedals. Troy paused, “_Oh,” _he met his eyes, “Well, I can’t say I’m as familiar with Stilwater’s boonies as I should be. If you know someplace, what’s the holdup?” 

Sitting back in his seat a moment, the New Guy watched the train tracks overhead, before reaching for the ignition. Turning the key, Troy listened to the car roar to life again, idling a moment, before he shifted and turned left down the street. As they drove parallel to the train tracks, Troy resituated their haul in the plastic bag, setting it all on the floorboard. 

“Where we goin’, anyhow? It’s an island, how much woods can there be?” 

The New Guy smirked, returning to the hint of playfulness, before relaxing his grip on the wheel. Troy scoffed lightly, to himself, and he took that as a cue to get comfortable. Taking the crinkled pack of cigarettes from his pocket again, he lit another before reclining. Propping an arm on the seat, he looked out the window as they turned onto the highway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took over a month, but it's finished. It is a little longer than the first two, but this is more along the lines of how it will be in the future. 
> 
> The "Bootlegger," for reference, is a 1969 Dodge Charger. Troy's "Vegas" is a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda.


	4. Young Gun

The lake rolled beneath them, sparkling in the hot sun. Signs overhead mocked and cluttered the cloudless skyline, sporadic high rise buildings in various states of repair passing over his vision. A fifteen minute drive took them across town, stopping just short of the western bridge to the northern island. Troy watched the roadwork and renovations taper off as they exited the highway, cutting through a residential neighborhood. People occupied their front porches and sidewalks, adults seeking refuge in the heat with beer and shade, kids enjoying the end of the school year as they played in the barren streets and front yards. Yet, as they passed, Troy felt eyes on the antique car as it rolled by, the majority donned in crimson. 

His expression hardened, as he nonchalantly pressed the lock on the door, repositioning in his seat. He exhaled smoke, glancing at the newbie as he drove_. No signs of unrest in him, at least. Passing through Ezpata must be comfortable, far more comfortable than the Row. _

The houses blurred by, melding into businesses and restaurants, or some combination of the two. He continued to smoke in silence, before grassy fields came into view beyond a final block of graffiti and the gentrified remains of Encanto. Turning onto another street, somewhere in the corner of nowhere, Troy flicked the cigarette butt out the window, tapping the door frame impatiently. 

“...Where the hell are we?” He asked, finally, swatting away gnats. Noting the rocky cliffs ahead, skirted by trees and fencing with the occasional trailer nestled in the brush, he sighed. 

_Christ, it’s hot. _

The New Guy’s pointed finger suddenly came into view, as he directed his gaze to the largest mountain—well, more of a glorified _hill_ compared to the mountains he knew. “Yeah, OK, what about it?” 

Huffing, he pointed again, ardently. 

Troy followed his hand to see the metal gate, blocking off a series of trails, nearly overgrown. With a rev of the engine, the New Guy accelerated beyond the stop sign, turning onto a main stretch of empty road. After slowing, he made a right into the gravel trail, following it to the gate. Putting the car in park, he opened the door, Troy watching as he crunched in the sun-dried grass. 

Unhooking the chain,_ which must have been there for show_, the New Guy walked the steel tube gate open. Troy leaned forward in his seat, peering through the windshield to the winding trail carved into dynamited mountains—_private property_? _No, he can’t be that stupid. _

Rejoining him, the New Guy sat down and readjusted his bandana. The heat was downright unbearable, and only now did his freckled face carry a sheen. 

Troy chewed his lip as the other shut the door. 

“...You aren’t planning on _burying me_ up there, are you?” 

The New Guy chuckled—a startled sound, one Troy wasn't expecting. “Oh, good.” The blonde sighed, rocking his knee. “Yeah; that speaks volumes._ Really_.” 

Shifting into gear again, the New Guy pulled forward, before turning onto the inclined trails. He followed the winding road, weaving around the mountain, passing piles of leaves and scrap alongside the half-sunken cliffs. Troy leaned out the window, watching Stilwater come into view beneath them as they climbed higher. Squinting, another long strip of road, dotted with bleachers on either side caught his attention—seemingly hidden out there in the woods. 

_The Old Highway—long swallowed up by the Lake. _

The repurposed span of freeway was cut off suddenly by the water, creeping up the bank, nipping at crumbled concrete. What remained made for an excellent racetrack, and even from this distance, he could identify several parked cars and RVs. 

“So _that’s _where you’re lugging this thing,” Troy commented. 

The New Guy smiled as they bounced along, the _Bootlegger_ rounding a sharp bend—_protected only by some flimsy fencing long seen better days_—onto a more isolated dirt path. Clawing branches from unkempt trees and bushes smacked the windshield, as he slowed into the clearing, idling, before turning the ignition again. 

Troy slouched in his seat, basting in the hot car, listening to the sound of dragonflies and bees. Water trickled somewhere nearby, subtle exhaust fumes wafting. Save for a chemical toilet and a trash bin chained to a rusted picnic table, the mountain woods were barren. The New Guy was getting out of the car, and jostled from his daydreaming, Troy urged his tired body on. Stepping out, a light breeze brought immediate refuge as he pinched his shirt and fanned the cloth away. 

_ Calm, scenic, and on Carnales turf. _

_Great. _

Squinting, shielding his eyes from patchy sunlight, he noted the faded, wooden sign propped near the mountain’s slope. 

_MOUNT CLAFLIN PARK_

“Huh,” he muttered to himself, glancing at his driver. His arms were above his head, stretching, cracking his neck. Eventually he was rubbing his knuckles, still sore from the fight. When he realized that Troy was absentmindedly looking his way, he turned abruptly, appearing to clear his throat. 

“Surprised a place like this exists in Stilwater,” he commented in disbelief. “Even more surprised it isn’t covered in garbage or crackheads. How’d you know about it?” Lifting his chin, “You used to live around here?” 

The New Guy shrugged. “Yeah…” Troy scoffed, “I really oughtta’ quit askin’ questions that ain’t a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer.” 

Taking a cigarette from the pack again, he crossed the clearing to the cliffside, wildflowers and goldenrod in full bloom, caterpillar nets dotting the trees. Testing his footing, he stomped a few times, before leaning over slightly. The winding trails they’d just climbed snaked beneath, and further yet, a small isolated lake sparkled from a wooded clearing. A shack rested next to it, alongside a modest pier, and several other structures resembling barns or boat sheds. The water was so clear, he could see the bottom from that height. “What’s all that down there? Somebody’s yard?” He called, tapping the pack of cigarettes against his palm. 

_A cache? _The New Guy approached, leaning over to look, the breeze tossing his hair. He then mimicked the turning of a spindle, flicking his wrist with a _plop _of his own tongue, followed by a silly half-grin. Troy allowed himself to smirk--warmly, but tired, “_Fishing, _ah. Sweet. Guess you hicks know how to have _some_ fun, huh?”

The New Guy snorted, waving him off as he walked back toward the car. Troy pondered another moment, flicking his lighter and cupping his hands. Puffing, he exhaled into the wind, before turning to shuffle back to the car. 

“Hey, I’m gettin’ low on smokes,” he told the other as he held his cigarette in his lips, unbuttoning his polo. Yanking it over his head and untangling the necklace, a rush of relief found him as he smoothed out the T-shirt underneath. 

_Holy shit, it should not be this hot in May. _

Dropping the shirt onto the seat, he ran a hand through his hair, fruitlessly. “I’m your worst nightmare without ‘em, so, let’s get this ball rolling, huh?” 

His lanky arm dipped through the window, swiping the bag from the floorboard. He noticed the New Guy reaching through the window opposite of him, instead gathering empty cans from the backseat. 

“Tidying up? Or..._oh_, you wanna practice on those? Ah, yeah, that’s a good idea. Ideally you should be practicin’ on somethin’ uh..._squishy, _y’know? Get you used to uh...well, you get it.” Hands resting on his hips again, Troy scanned the clearing, before pointing toward a rocky bank, partway exposed to direct sunlight. 

“That’s a good spot, over there.” As he walked, he rummaged through the bag. The New Guy made work of setting the cans in a neat line against the rocks, crouching down in broken glass and dry leaves, boots crunching in the pebbles. The hot sun on his shoulders, he leaned up, removing the orange flannel and tying it around his waist. 

Gun in hand, now, Troy waved him over. 

“A’ite kid, come over here a sec.” Coming to stand beside him, Troy lifted the gun into view. Pointing it away from them, the steel glimmered in the sun.

“This is your piece; it’s a VICE9. Works if you’re right or left handed. It takes 9mm bullets, ‘kay?” He lifted the box of ammo, giving it a shake, before dropping it in the grass next to his shoe. “You load ‘em into a magazine. That’s this thing right here.” 

Clicking the release, the empty magazine slid out into his hand. He held it up, before palming it back. “Keep a few of them on you—you can buy more of these. But, _discreetly_, like I said. This gun holds 15 shots. Bullet feeds into the chamber, right here.” He locked open the slide, showing him the empty cylinder. “Since you’ve never shot a gun, let me make this abundantly clear.” His left arm rose, elbow slightly bent, hand impeccably steady. 

“Only point at what you intend to shoot, and, don’t shoot drunk, a’ite? No huntin’ trips with your drunk uncle. Trust me, it’s a bad idea.” 

The New Guy flattened his lips into a tight smile, unprepared for such a recommendation.

“This is important stuff here, pay attention. Did my uncle shoot me in the ass? Yes. I’m haunted. The lesson here is to not shoot your friends in the ass. Don’t point it at nothin’ you don’t intend to make dead. Now—hey, knock that shit off, this is serious,” the New Guy did his best to remain stoic, but Troy continued, “Don’t shoot your friends in the ass. Rule _número uno, _a’ite? Rule two—_what’s ‘two’,” _he held up two fingers as he pondered, before snapping them, “uh…” 

“..._dos,” _the New Guy murmured. 

“_Dos_, yes, thank you. Rule _número dos_,” he continued, as the New Guy dipped his head, nostrils flaring. “...is to practice, first. That’s where these come in.” 

Reaching down, he took the other smaller box, opening it, and showing him. “These are snap caps. They _look _like live ammo, but this bit here?” He nudged one with a hooked thumb, “there’s nothin’ in here; it’s a dud. Before we load anything live into this puppy, I want you to get used to the feel of it. The trigger don’t go ‘bang’ immediately—OK? There’s some _push_ to it. When that happens, your hand tends to wanna—“ he mimicked it, wrist sharply jolting up, gold bracelet jingling, “...go like’at. It fucks your aim. Plan for it, and learn your weapon; that’s how you’ll hit your mark, every time.” 

Nodding, the New Guy blinked as Troy took the caps from the box, holding a few in his free palm. “...Now, the best way to practice that is something called ‘dry firing.’” He loaded one of the snap caps into the chamber, cocking the slide. “The problem with _doin’ it dry_ though is—“ _oh god, **what**? _

He stared ahead, blankly. _“Uh—” Might as well run with it, now. “..._that’s never _fun,_ for _anyone_, right?” 

The New Guy snorted, eyes squeezing shut, a bright smile flashing.

_Yeah, okay, get it out of your system. _“Yeah? Well, the same logic applies to the gun, here, OK?” 

The New Guy offset the difficulty of concealing his snickering by scratching his nose, as Troy maintained his deadpan expression with expert tenacity. “That’s what these are for. It keeps wear to a minimum. Now, here; you’re gonna’ try.” 

He passed it to him, holding it by the barrel, offering the handle. The New Guy straightened, collecting himself and hesitantly taking it in his right hand, before lifting his arm, hand extended sideways. 

_ Ugh. _

“No, no, no—time out,” Troy interrupted, reaching for his wrist. Turning it, he oriented it upright. “None of that movie shit; you wanna’ look _tough _you do that when you ain’t about to get _shot_. See this thingy?” A pale index finger tapped the sights, “this is how you _aim_. Level that to your eye.” He lifted his wrist, ducking behind his shoulder to match his height. “OK, shorty, that’s good—right about there. _Hold that._ Now, you can’t use that neat little piece of modern ingenuity holdin’ it fuckin’ _sideways_, can ya?”

The New Guy glanced at him, some exasperation settling in his raised brow. “_Eyes_, man, use them peepers. When you line this _here_ up with _this_,” he tapped the end of the barrel, to the small prong protruding. “And it fits together? We call that ‘building a castle,’ a’ite—it means you’re good to fire.” He observed as the New Guy, focusing, raised his wrist slightly to align the sights.

“Good. Another thing,” he said with some intonation, “when you shoot, keep both eyes open. You’re gonna be tempted to squint,” he motioned, squeezing one eye shut, “but _trust me_; you want to keep both eyes on your target, especially if they’re shootin’ at you. Since you’re a righty, I’m assuming you got lucky and your dominant eye is your right one, correct?” 

The New Guy paused, closing one eye, and then the other, before nodding slowly. “Good. See, I got the shit-end of the stick on that one. Moving on.” 

Reaching over, the New Guy watched his veiny hand as it clicked the safety off, and how his slender fingers moved. “Go ahead and try it. Focus on the trigger and how it feels. Exhale, and squeeze—steady pressure.” 

With some newfound certainty, he squeezed, and the gun clicked quietly. 

Troy spread his arms, the New Guy’s brows raising. “See? It’s that easy. Go for it a few more times.” 

He did so, clicking, before he calmed and held his hand as still as he could. Pleased, he turned to Troy with a confident smile.

“A’ite, _good_. On to the real shit.” Taking the gun, and exhaling, he held it out. “Watch closely. _Never _assume a gun’s unloaded until you check. Press this here,” Troy explained, and obliging, the magazine slid out into the New Guy’s hand in a fluid motion. 

“Good. Now, use your fingers to open the slide. While you do that, I’m holding this down with my thumb, see?” He turned it, showing him the slide release. “G’head. OK, now, let’s get that out.” Tilting it over, the snap cap fell into his palm. “I’m going to press this—_move your fingers_,“ flipping up the release, the slide snapped sharply back into place. “...And now decock it.” Pressing, the hammer flipped back up. “There ya’ go. Got all that?” 

The New Guy met his eyes, nodding hesitantly. Troy crouched down, beside the bag, opening the cardboard box of ammo. The bullets gleamed in the sun, as the tree branches drifted overhead. 

Holding out a closed hand, shaking it after a moment, the New Guy finally extended his. Troy dropped the snap caps into his open palms. “Hang on to these; you can practice indoors. Just make sure you don’t mistake em’ for the real deal.” 

Placing them in a large pocket of his cargo pants, the New Guy shifted his weight off his bad leg while Troy finished prepping. Standing, and with reflexive maneuvering of the weapon, he cocked it and flipped the safety on. 

“Just a sec—_Hey_!” He called, cupping a hand around his mouth for heightened volume. “_Anybody out there?” _

His voice carried over the trees and rocks before dissipating. Left only with the sound of birds and bugs, he resumed. 

“A’ite, we’re good.” He squinted, “Come stand over here.”

Gesturing with a roll of a shoulder, the New Guy stepped closer, watching him carefully. 

Holding it out, Troy moved behind the New Guy while his hand encircled the grip. “First off, your stance. Chances are you won’t have time to think about your footwork. But, it’s good to know.” With his foot, he scooted his feet apart. “Feet shoulder-width, tracked out. And—_stand up straight_; you’re short enough as it is, slouching ain’t helping.” 

With somewhat of a glare, the New Guy listened, straightening his back and squaring his dense shoulders. “There, tough guy; now you’re a force to be reckoned with.” 

Troy lifted his elbow, and took the New Guy’s other wrist, bringing it under his palm. “Lean forward a little—good. Keep your elbows loose,” he jerked them down, a bit, before he braced against the movement. “You don’t want to be locked out, see? One hand on the grip, the other supporting it. Like this.” He repositioned his hands, holding them there, until he could memorize the form. “Thumb right above the takedown pin, but not on the slide. Good. There shouldn’t be any space between your thumb webbing, here. It’s going to make the kick much easier to control. I don’t care if it looks _stupid, _you’re doin’ it _my way _while I’m teachin’.” 

Backing up slightly, his hands hovered over the other’s, before his eyes dropped tentatively. 

_Scared. _

“You’re shakin’, calm down.” The New Guy locked his jaw, breath held, as _embarrassment_ now joined his nervousness. 

_Damn. _

“_Look_, uh—it’s normal to be a little _spooked_.” Troy told him, softening his tone. “I ain’t gonna’ run outta here and shout from the rooftops that _the New Guy’s a pussy._ Shootin’ people shouldn’t come _naturally, _a’ite? I’d be _more_ worried if you were all _gung-ho_ about it.” 

_Just shows you’ve got a heart, kid._

Glancing at him, the New Guy inhaled through his nostrils, a shuddering sound, before nodding. His grip relaxed. “OK? You got this. Switch off the safety.” 

_Wonder how long that’ll last. _

Focused, he peered down the sights, thumb releasing the safety. “Good,” Troy murmured, “Now, it’s gonna’ be _loud, _a’ite? Not _too _loud, but, it ain’t a fuckin’ _lullaby_. Just breathe, and chill. Remember how the trigger felt before?” The New Guy nodded, stiffly. “OK--that’s called _double action_. You’re in that right now, so it’s the same deal as before. OK, you ready?” He listened as he exhaled, nodding again. “3...2...1, _fire.” _

_A _sudden _pop_ followed, sending a can flipping and cascading off the cliff side, a cloud of dust kicking up in its stead. The New Guy jumped—hands jolting suddenly, no doubt feeling some _sting_. Troy listened as the gunshot cracked over the rocks, carried on the breeze. 

_He didn’t hesitate. _

_Not bad. _

With a lopsided grin, he took a drag, squinting ahead. 

“Congrats kid,” he slapped a hand on his shoulder, exhaling smoke. “Killer of cans. Trash and pop alike.” 

Glancing back at him, all smiles with some _relief_, the New Guy met Troy’s approving nod. “See? That wasn’t so bad, huh? Kinda’ fun, right?” Some exhilaration hovered in his face, before his lips closed into a smile. “So, OK—check this out,” Troy reached, one sharp movement yanking the slide forward, before it snapped back in place with a sudden click. The New Guy flinched, startled, but resumed his focus.

“This is _single action.”_ He explained, a pale finger gently patting the hammer. “Instead of before, where it moved down incrementally, it’s gonna’ clamp down _quick_. The trigger’s gonna’ feel softer, too.” 

Readjusting, the New Guy lifted the gun to his eyes, head held naturally. “Good, good,” Troy assured, quietly. “A’ite—3...2...1, _fire_.” 

Squeezing, he fired, another can hit deadcenter—crack of the gunshot looming. His shoulders relaxed, slightly, lips forming a line, as the light smoke passed over him. 

Troy gave a thumbs-up, backing away, plopping down with a grunt near the plastic bag and ammo. With his arms propped over his knees, he raised his chin. “G’head and practice some more.” He grinned a bit, fingers loosely hooking. “I’m watchin’.” 

Concentrating, the New Guy stabilized his hands, squeezing the trigger as another _pop_ rang out in the mountains. Troy smoked quietly, gaze following each can, one by one, pitched against the slope. 

_ Kid’s a goddamn crack shot. _

Tiling his head, he exhaled a sleepy smoke ring. 

Birds flocked overhead, _having a very bad afternoon indeed, _filling the woods with racket and rustling branches. When the gun emptied, the New Guy lowered his hands, barrel pointed at the ground. His dark eyes settled on the cliffside, determination replacing anxiousness. 

“Good job, man,” Troy clapped lazily a few times, before beckoning him over. “Come over here , but—hey, _clear your gun.” _

He watched him as he approached, ejecting the magazine, opening the slide, and checking the chamber. He worked it, decocked and empty. Satisfied, and _maybe a little proud_, Troy peered up at him through his lashes. 

“You’re sharp; I’ll give you that.” The other looked away modestly, casting his gaze to the woods. “Now you’re gonna’ load it and unload it.” Troy set the ammo box in front of him as the New Guy lowered to the grass beside him, folding his legs. 

Hand extended, palm open, Troy didn’t raise his eyes. “Thing.” 

The New Guy looked at him, a moment, before sheepishly setting it in his hand. “‘Kay, so, this takes a minute, but you’ll get quicker at it.” He held the magazine up, bringing it to eye level for the both of them. “This little bit here—“ turning his head to meet his eyes, “it’s metal here, can be plastic sometimes—is called the _follower_.” Pressing on it, it bounced back. “Inside there’s a spring feeding the bullets up, ya’ see?” 

Nodding, the New Guy observed, before hesitantly glancing at the other’s face—from the dark circles under his eyes, to the moles dotting the right side of his jaw. “You’re gonna’ want to find the flat side,” Troy continued, as he tapped a finger along the edge, “that’s how you know it’s the _back, OK? _Bullets are gonna’ point _this way.” _Demonstrating, pushing the bullet in and sliding it down, he held it out to him. “It’s easy. You try.” 

Taking it, the New Guy worked the bullets in, clumsily at first, before pinning down the previous with his thumb to leverage the next. “Ah, see—there ya go. Gettin’ the hang of this.” Troy hooked his arms around his shins again, watching his hands work. “...They have speed loaders if you’re in a hurry. It can get time consuming. Plus, it gives you blisters, and shit.” 

The New Guy finished, holding up his hand, showing off a heavily callused palm. Troy raised his eyebrows, “well, unless you got uh—_yeah_, you’re probably _good.” _Leaning back in the grass, taking the butt of his cigarette and extinguishing it on the bottom of his shoe, he sighed. “You’ve got another box of ammo left. If you wanna’ practice some more, you can.” 

The New Guy’s lips parted as he contemplated, but he turned to him instead, motioning. With squinched eyes, confused, Troy watched as the other got to his feet and gestured to follow. 

“What?” Troy asked, furrowing his brows. Reclined in the grass, the ground was clammy, and coupled with the breeze, he was finally cooling down. _Could really use a beer and a nap. _“I’m burning alive out here, I ain’t gettin’ up. Go practice.” 

About to close his eyes, the New Guy waved again, forcing him to tilt his head out of sheer curiosity. “...Look, just fuckin’ _talk_, man, I know you _can._ What is it?” 

Huffing, he balled his fists, before his lips parted again. 

“_Si quieres, _puedes practicar conmigo.” 

“_Huh?” _

_A sigh. _

Troy blinked, nose half-wrinkled, squinting in the dim sunlight. “...Do you speak English?” 

Shuffling, he sighed again and raised his hand. 

_So-so. _

“But, you understand me? Well, that don’t make any fuckin’ sense. You’re gonna’ have to work with me, here, so every day ain’t _charades._” Tucking his hands beneath his head, he closed his eyes. “That, or go learn _ASL._” 

The New Guy, with slumping shoulders, chewed his lip. 

He turned on his heel, but paused, looking over his shoulder at him again. 

“Shoot with me,” he managed, finally, in a reserved tone. A little _stunned, _Troy opened his eyes. 

“..._What_?” 

“¿_No hablas inglés?” _

“_Hey_—OK, no, _smartass_, I caught that,” Pointing, Troy sat up, before rising to his feet. Brushing off his backside, “you wanna’ target practice? Like, against _me?” _

The New Guy nodded once. 

_Back to the usual silence. _

“Ahh,” he clicked his tongue, “yeah, I don’t…” 

“‘Fraid you’ll lose?_”_ The New Guy interjected with a cheeky grin, gap in his front teeth visible. 

Baffled, but increasingly flustered, Troy huffed indignantly. 

“Oh, OK—yeah _fine man, sure_.” Gesturing broadly, he took the revolver from his belt. “You’re on. And once you’re really _rollin’ _in the dough takin’ Julius’ _cassock _to the cleaners, you can foot the cost of my ammo.” 

He somewhat stalked across the grass, bringing the New Guy to smirk to himself, contentedly. As Troy approached the slope, he raised his hands. “What’re we shootin’? You sent all the cans to the farm.” 

The New Guy was opening his trunk—_yup, there’s the racing slicks—_taking out a roll of black garbage bags. Unrolling one, he tore it free. 

Troy swung his arms, letting them drop. 

“...So you _are_ gonna’ _kill me_._” _He exclaimed, incredulously. “Look, you’re gettin’ the bags ready and everything--brought me all the way out here to _Bumfuck National Park _so you could _kill me.” _

Snickering quietly, the New Guy also retrieved a roll of duct tape, before slamming the trunk shut. “Oh—oh yeah _that’s great,” _he remarked, watching him as he stepped over. “I’m fish food. Dumb white boy in the woods? It’s a _classic.” _

Rolling his lips to smother more chuckling, the New Guy knelt down, spreading the bag out in the grass. He reached into his pocket, taking a pocket _knife—_

“Ah—there we go.” Troy pointed loosely, nodding to himself as he shuffled in a circle. “It’s gonna take awhile with that thing, though, but—_” _he let his head fall back. “Okay, last wishes—do I get last wishes? Lemme see here…” 

Pulling some tape free, he cut it into strips, pressing them into circles on the bag. Still pacing, Troy rubbed his forehead. “I want..._shit_, I don’t know,” glancing at him over his shoulder, “this ain’t an everyday thing, here, you’re really puttin’ me on the spot.” 

“Take your time,” The New Guy teased, quietly, from his crouched position. 

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, eyes settling on the other’s amused expression. “I got nothin’.” 

“Can kill you _later_,” he offered, not looking up, “no biggie.” 

Standing, bag in hand, he smiled with his eyes on the ground. Stepping past Troy, he moved close to the slope, climbing the rocks for a boost. Outstretching his arms, he draped the bag across the gap—a makeshift target, wafting lightly in the breeze. 

“_Oh,” _Troy said slowly, brows raising as he watched him secure it. “...that’s pretty smart.” 

The New Guy smoothed it out, before turning and jumping down. 

_ He really is just...shy. _

_Still, he could be keeping it zipped for other reasons. _

Glancing at one another, they began walking, ten, twenty yards away, well past the car. As they stood across the clearing now, the target illuminated in the afternoon sun, Troy shook out his arms. Gun in hand, he raised it, flipping open the chamber. Six shots, all loaded. Spinning it closed with a flourish, the New Guy’s eyes lit up as he watched him work the polished hardware. 

“So,” Troy began, a competitive edge finding his voice, the other matching his expression. “No show of skill’s worth doin’ if it can’t be betted on, so, how ‘bout it?” Sniffing, he shifted his weight, estimating the distance. “Six shots. If you win…?” 

“I don’t pay for bullets,” the New Guy replied, bringing Troy to nod. 

“A’ite, fair enough. If you win, this’ all on me.” 

Blinking, the New Guy tilted his head, leaning. “¿Y _tú_?” 

Contemplating, Troy’s lips formed a line, while he studied the target. 

“...How ‘bout a _name, _huh_?” _He glimpsed him from the corner of his eye, noting the other’s mild astonishment. “I win, and you spill it. We got a deal?” 

“_Simón,” _he replied, with a confounded nod. “Deal.” 

“A’ite, cool.” Troy raised his hand, clicking back the hammer. Squinting a moment, he glanced at him, smirking. “Might wanna’ cover your ears.” 

The New Guy puffed out his chest, pride a little affronted. 

Shrugging, Troy raised his other hand and steadied the gun. Focusing, he opened both eyes, before squeezing the trigger. 

The pin struck the bullet, the magnum revolver booming through the clearing. The New Guy jolted, ears ringing, ducking down with bent knees, hands reflexively darting to cover his head. Troy relaxed his stance, chuckling—a light, breathy sound.

_Dumbass. _

“‘_Kay_,” Arm hooking, and pointing the barrel toward the sky, he smirked teasingly at his opponent. “Your turn.” 

The other flexed his jaw, straightening his back to reclaim some dignity. Taking his gun from his waistband, he widened his stance, cocking it, and raising it to eye-level. Stabilizing his hands, he exhaled, concentrating, before firing. 

Five exchanges rang out, as the sun began to sink in the sky. Surrounded by the smell of gunpowder and late afternoon heat, they both stood with pleased faces, the target dotted in holes. 

Walking to it, the New Guy right behind, Troy grinned as he approached the rocky slope. “A’ite, let’s see here,” he began, stepping up onto the rock. Leaning forward on his knee, he pointed. “Here’s me...you..._oh_—damn. Good one, man, you hit it dead-on.” He glanced at him over his shoulder, before scanning it further. 

“You win,” the New Guy said finally, counting more eagerly. With a defeated shrug, he scuffed his boot in the dirt. 

Stepping off the rock, Troy raised his chin, tucking the revolver back into his belt. “Guess so. Hey, good game; should come out here and do it again sometime, huh? Bring a cooler or somethin’?” 

Troy watched the shyness seeping back into his presence, as he was looking at his shoes again. “Hey—don’t sweat it; I’ve had a lot of practice.” _Yeah. Too much. _“You just started _now _and did damn good for a newbie. 5 of 6 hit center; I’d say the bastard’s_ dead.” _

Looking up, his mouth twisted a bit, but settled into a bashful grin. “OK?” Troy asked, gut kicking a bit. _Bad time to grow a fucking conscience._ “Ya did good.” 

Just as he was about to speak, a phone rang_—_a familiar, condescending jingle. Holding up a finger, Troy reached into his back pocket—_wrong one—_promptly searching the other. Taking out the phone, he flipped it open. 

_Shit. _

With a beep, _“_Hey, man.” He tucked his chin, holding it to his ear. 

_“VK are making a move,” _came Julius’ heavy tone, before he paused, taking a breath. _“I want you and the kid to take em’ out.” _

Troy turned around, away from the New Guy’s curious gaze, eyes darting between pebbles and tufts of dandelions. Muttering into the receiver, “I don't think it’s the right _time for that_ yet—“

“_Did you do what I asked?” _

“Wh—_yeah_,” He replied, collecting his thoughts, “it’s done.” _That hundred bucks didn’t go far. _

“_Then get a move-on. I want the Row cleared out by tonight, so we can plan our next move.” _

“Jules, I don’t—“ irritated, his jaw flexed, as he lowered his volume further, maintaining a nonchalant front. “just get _Gat to do it; _we aren’t even on_ that side of town_—“ 

_“Where are you?” _

_“_That’s beside the point,” he waved at nothing, bringing the New Guy to raise a brow. “_look_—” 

_“He needs to get his feet wet, Troy.” _Julius murmured, and Troy let his head hang, eyes falling shut. “_Do it. Call when it’s done.” _

“...fine, yeah.” He rubbed his forehead, before taking the phone away, snapping it shut. Exhaling, he was reaching for his cigarettes, starting toward the car.

“...That was _Julius_,” he announced, as the New Guy briskly followed, “we have some cleaning up to do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: In case this needs to be stated, please do not take any of the above information for shooting or the handling of a firearm as actual instruction. It is not intended in any way to be a guide. 
> 
> With that said, this was a fun chapter to write.
> 
> Troy’s “.44 Shepard” (in SR1) is a Smith & Wesson Model 29. The “VICE9” is the Beretta M9. (Also in SR1.)


	5. Baptized by Fire

Troy threw open the door to the Bootlegger, grabbing up his shirt and tossing it into the backseat. Lit cigarette between his lips, he squinted into the setting sun, late afternoon cast in blooming pinks. His hand dug through the pocket of his over-sized jeans, retrieving six bullets, scooping them into his lap. As he flicked open the chamber to the revolver_, _the New Guy opened the driver’s side door, having taken a moment to discard the makeshift target. 

“Get in,” Troy told him, sharply, as he worked the bullets into the gun—one gleaming tube after another. 

Doing as he asked, he sat down, closing the door. Reaching for his keys, his careful eyes scanned Troy’s hands as he spun the chamber closed, tucking the revolver into his belt. Remaining silent, the New Guy pushed the key into the ignition, engine turning over with a powerful roar. 

Troy tapped his fingers on the door frame as he smoked, eyes set out at nothing, darting between the trees and rocks as if they held answers. 

As the hemi descended the cliffs, winding down the dirt road and back to the paved street again, the New Guy glanced at him occasionally, bump after jostle doing nothing to stir him from his thoughts. 

Troy brought his hand to his forehead, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. “Listen to me very carefully,” He said eventually, the sudden reproach in his tone bringing the other to shift in his seat. “...If you do what I say, you’ll be fine, OK? But you _gotta follow_ my orders, or else...well, I don’t think I gotta’ spell it out.” 

Nodding once, the New Guy’s gaze hardened. Cars passed, nighttime air approaching, while the brilliant sunset bled through the clouds, mirrored in the Lake below. Troy turned his attention to the sidewalks, to the passerby people—walking home from work, or school, or _whatever. _The mundane was suddenly so appealing—_insulting, _even, given the alternative—their indistinct chattering numbing to the ears. 

_It’s not like this was new_, he thought, as he allowed his eyes to fall closed, wind from the open window cooling his feverish face. _Doesn’t make it any easier, though. _

“Julius explained the overall situation at the church,” He spoke after a moment, cradling his forehead in his hand and exhaling smoke. “He’s sending us to take care of some VK; by far, they’ve been the biggest pain in the ass. I don’t need to tell _you_ their ideology. My guess is that there won’t be many of them, but, none of em’ can make it home tonight.” Waving the smoke away, he squeezed an eye shut to the sun’s glare, a single strip of orange sunlight streaking across his face. “...It’s more than just capping some scumbags—it’s about sending a _message._ Best case scenario, they take a fuckin’ _hint_.” 

Lips forming a line, the New Guy watched the road, while Troy bounced his knee.

“It needs to be swift, and brutal,” He continued, “so they know not to step again. Get that beat into your head right now.”

“…and if they retaliate?” The other asked quietly.

Troy took another long drag, before propping his chin on his hand, elbow against the window frame.

“Easy,” he exhaled, studying him. “We fuck ‘em up ‘til they either stay down, or nobody’s left.”

The New Guy entered the _Encanto_ district, largely unchanged from a few hours ago—only now the wafting of cooking food and cacophonic, muddled music filled the streets, dogs barking as they passed. Troy’s head throbbed with each beat of over-amplified bass. 

“...Why do VK come to the Row?” 

Troy raised an eyebrow as the New Guy spoke, barely audible. Rolling the window up to a crack to hear better, he leaned in.

Glancing at him, the New Guy swallowed. “They were there that night. Seen ‘em around before that, too.” 

_Why were **you** there that night? _

“Yeah,” Troy answered, smoke pooling from beneath clenched teeth as he slumped back against the seat. “It’s a budding sex ring, mostly.” The New Guy looked at him, before turning his attention back to the road. “I ain’t talkin’ about the ‘_leavin’ phone numbers on napkins type’_, either. This is legit _trafficking. _They’re in the market for new workers and new territory, because the cops are crackin’ down in Sunnyvale and Brighton. The Row’s easy pickins’.” 

He flexed his fingers, puffing on his cigarette, before taking his hand away and staring down at his lap. “The corner was contested by the _Rollerz_, and my guess is the _Carnales_ caught wind and cleaned house. Gotta’ wonder how they found out _and_ got there so quick.” 

The New Guy nodded slowly, before chewing his lip thoughtfully. Watching the houses go by, Troy shook his head lightly, anger creasing his brow. 

“The VK is run by a guy named Ben King, a’ite—he’s a _big shot _in Stilwater; I dunno if you knew that. He’s busy trying to _look important_, so chances are? I doubt he even fuckin’ _knows _his boys are pressin’ here to begin with. King follows the money, and how much can be made from government housing and purgatorial _construction, _huh? That leaves one thing: supply and demand.” Pausing, “...but you let me and Julius worry about that.” 

He nodded, exhaling through his nose. Troy went to look at the other as he drove, studied his profile—_calm. _

_Could be a front; kid gets nervous telling his own fucking name, how was he going to handle this? _

“This ain’t like shootin’ targets, kid,” he warned, “OK—or some _game,_ it’s _chaos, _and it’s over in _seconds_. Your bullets don’t always hit the bad guys; they hit other people, too. You can’t let that happen; all that does is paint the Saints as killers, same as the guys we’re wastin’. So when we go into this—_fuck,” _he swore, bringing the other to glance at him. Troy said nothing for a moment, organizing his thoughts and slowing his words. “...Sorry, I’m _pissed_.” Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes, still fidgeting. 

_If something happens…?_

_Julius was damned determined to make sure he had a front-row seat for it. Seemed almost deliberate. _

With a trembling hand he brought the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling. 

_Quit looking so nervous; the kid won’t listen if he loses respect. Then he’ll be dead. _

_“_Watch my back.” He said finally, stern and collected. “I can’t take care of this _and _be watchin’ out for you at the same time. But, I also have to know I can rely on you. Julius needs you to do this, and he’s counting on us both.” The New Guy’s brows furrowed as if he were about to speak, but he decided against it. “So, keep your head down. I don’t know what we’re walking into.” A grimace, as he sneered out the window at nothing, muttering. “_Go-fuckin’-figure_.” 

They rounded the block, the toll of the evening bells echoing over parking lots and barrel fires. The signature emptiness returned, cracked sidewalks bathed in warm sunlight, cranes and half-finished infrastructure dotting the horizon. 

Troy finished his cigarette, flicking it out the window, leaning an elbow out as he reached for the revolver. The New Guy steered, hand over hand on the wheel, watching the corners carefully, scanning underpasses and doorways. 

“The usual hangout’s beneath the bridge,” Troy murmured over the engine, “somethin’ tells me after last week, they ain’t so keen to be out in the open. They’re here for business, anyhow.” He looked up, leaning out of the window slightly, eyes following the water tower and other abandoned complexes, before he peered behind him. “...movin’ this whole operation indoors, probably. But, they can’t get a handle on the brothel. Yet.” 

_Need a product to push, first. _“...pull up there,” Troy directed, as he pointed to a storage unit surrounded in brickwork buildings—a mere couple of blocks from the church. Ducking back into the car, “They’d be just ballsy enough.” 

The hemi ambled down the street, winding a corner, _Henrik’s Drugstore_ and an auto shop adjacent to a cluster of buildings. Troy reached out, tapping the New Guy on the arm, before pointing. An obnoxious yellow convertible—_roof down, recent model_—sat parked in the shade of a lone tree. Graffiti lined the walls, the majority fresh, skirted by paneled garage doors. 

“We go in there? We’re gettin’ cornered,” Troy told him, as he tucked a knee under himself for a better look, “It’s a dead end. Those buildings block off; that way there,” he pointed to the tree, “there’s a little alley there, barely can squeeze through, that leads right to 3rd Street.” The New Guy observed from the corner of his eye, contemplation heavy on his brow. 

Rubbing his chin, Troy craned his neck. “We come in from the road, we’re dead. We try to storm those units, we’re double-dead. So, we gotta draw em’ out somehow.” 

“...let’s torch the car,” the New Guy murmured, with somewhat of a smirk. 

Troy looked up, brow raising. 

“..._Damn, _kid,” The New Guy sheepishly averted his eyes back to the road. “I was just gonna’ suggest we order ‘em a _pizza_ or somethin’, y’know.” Glancing at him, squinting slightly, Troy clarified, “...a _joke_—it’s a _defense mechanism_—keep _drivin’_.” 

As they passed, Troy’s eyes returned to the car parked out front, before he drummed his fingers on the back of the seat. “...But, I like how you think.” 

Peering through his passenger side window again, he gestured. “Go park behind the dumpster there at the pharmacy. I’ve got an idea.” 

The New Guy obliged, turning and weaving around the building. Backing the _Bootlegger_ into a space, the parking lines long worn away, the dumpster and a large wooden fence beside them nearly concealed the antique car. Troy pushed his hair out of his eyes, opening his door. 

“Wait here,” he said, hiding the revolver behind his back, as he leaned an arm on the roof. “I’m gonna’ go make some noise. When that happens? Be ready to get my ass out of there ‘case it goes to shit, a’ite?” 

Heart starting to pound, he nodded at him. Troy rolled down the window all the way, before slamming the door shut. Stepping around the car, he ducked slightly, before crossing the parking lot. 

The New Guy left the car idling, leaning an arm out his window, watching as Troy nonchalantly searched for witnesses, before lightly jogging across the street, revolver low at his side. 

Taking the VICE9 from his waistband, the New Guy checked it, staring at it in his hand for a moment, before returning his focus to Troy. 

As he crossed the sidewalk, he bent his knees and quickly moved across the lot, reaching the tree in the alley, before quietly approaching the car. The storage units, lined up in front of one another, extended for a quarter of a block—the pavement sloping into a bay of sorts, implying a partially underground garage at the end. A wafting of pot and the light booming of music suggested at least one of them was occupied.

_Nobody appreciated some good old-fashioned arson more than he did, but, there could be captives inside. _

_The car’s gotta go, though; can’t risk a getaway. _

Troy shook his head irritably to flip stray hair out of his face, straightening his legs to peek over the car, before his eyes settled on the console—_automatic._

Reaching over the door, his hip brushed the frame—immediately sounding a car alarm. 

_“Shit—!” _He swore to himself, throwing an arm over the driver’s seat, pressing the brake with one hand and yanking the shifter into neutral with the other. Leaning out, he rounded the back of the car, pushing his shoulder up against the trunk. 

The New Guy’s breath quickened as he watched, alarm blaring, eyes darting to the garage doors visible from his side of the street. One of them raised halfway, several pairs of feet from beneath. His thumb clicked back the hammer, foot still firm on the clutch. 

Troy grunted, pushing with all of his body weight against the car, dipping his head and squeezing his eyes shut. _Tacky fuckin’ heavy shit—! _

After a moment, the tires began to turn, and able to cross his feet he pushed the car toward the slope—rolling faster and faster until it careened down the asphalt toward the garage. 

Not stopping to check, Troy turned on his heel and sprinted toward the alleyway, the sudden crash of the car filling the street with the sound of crumpling steel and shattering glass. The alarm still blared, distorted, echoing through the buildings now. 

The collective hollering of several voices called out at once, as four, five men clad in yellow ran out onto the pavement, guns drawn. 

Troy pressed his back to the brick, listening—“what the _fuck?” _One hollered, voice cracking, repeating himself in baffled disbelief, another voice joining, 

“Go, go—“ he urged, “change’in plans.” 

“_Plans_? Yo—_fuck your plans_, look at my _fuckin’ car_—!” 

“E-brake, _stupid-ass_.” Another snickered. 

“Shut the _fuck up,_ man—“

“Both y’all _shut the fuck up_,” the second man interrupted. “We got company.” 

Troy raised an eyebrow, bringing the revolver to his chest, finger hovering over the trigger. “Wait for me to call—get the lock-down on Harrowgate.” 

_Interesting. _

“Come on out,” the same man goaded, swinging his arms, lifting the gun into view. “You got our _attention_—what you hidin’ for? Come say _hello.” _

The New Guy watched, swallowing, eyes darting between the Vice Kings, obscured by the corner of the building, and Troy—clearly visible to him, but hidden from the other’s view in the alleyway. 

He shifted anxiously, seeing Troy crouching down, knees barely having enough room as he was squeezed between the buildings. As he did so, just behind him, the New Guy caught a glimpse of something—no, of some_one. _

Breath catching, he immediately hooked his arm out the window, firing an ear-piercing shot into the sky. Distant shrill screams sounded, coming from the surrounding buildings, as the Vice Kings immediately turned their attention to him. Erupting in uncoordinated hollering, they ran out into the lot and sidewalk, popping bullets in his general direction. 

“_Fuck—!” _Troy swore under his breath, before he caught something in the corner of his vision. Turning, his hands shot up, grasping for the wrist of his assailant, sharply forcing an untrained hand to the sky—a glock far too close for comfort. The other fired, once, twice, inches from his cheek, ringing his ears, bullets zipping past—narrowly missing. Preferring to _keep it that way, _Troy locked his legs, attempting to unbalance the larger man. He jerked suddenly, focusing all his strength into his arms, slamming the other’s wrist into the brick. His assailant cried out, but gritted his teeth, still straining to tilt the gun at him—struggling to clench his fingers beneath Troy’s grip. Desperate, the attacker lobbed a sloppy fist—striking his eyebrow, his jaw—before Troy ducked with a sound more startled than pained. Still, again and again Troy slammed the other’s hand against the wall, pushing his shoulder to his arm—pinning it there, dragging—until his bare skin bloodied and his fingers uncurled, gun dropping with a clatter.

The New Guy floored the gas, spinning the wheel with shrieking, smoking tires, the heavy car clearing the lot and speeding toward the group. Bullets cracked the windshield, as three of them dove from the car’s path, fender clipping the fourth and sending him twisting to the asphalt, the fifth taking the full force of the front bumper. He rolled onto the hood, a tangle of arms and legs and sickening thumping—cracks and blood in his wake, before the New Guy stomped the brake. He flung into the wheel, head snapping sharply, the Vice King catapulting several feet from the hood before smacking the ground, rolling until still. 

Troy rammed his shoulder into the other’s chest as he tossed out his arms, scraping brick, before he tumbled backward to the ground. He fumbled the revolver, pointing it down at the other—a single booming shot joining the chaos.

The New Guy’s feet worked the clutch, hand shifting in seconds, flooring the gas as he reversed the heavy car, spinning the front end to angle his arm out the driver's side. 

He open-fired, _not hitting any of them, _sending them running for cover. 

Turning on his heel, Troy stumbled past the tree to the lot again, deafened to the gunfire—cranking back the hammer and firing several shots at the three remaining. His eyes widened as he looked from the dropped bodies to the New Guy’s car—_shit, kid—_before one of the Vice Kings dipped out from the storage unit, hand flinging out— 

“_Get down!_” Troy barked, the sudden flashing of a SMG and careening shells filling the lot. The New Guy threw himself over his seats, covering his head as bullets sprayed, holes lining the door, cascading down the bodywork, shattering the glass of the back window. Troy dove behind the car, pressing his back to the front tire, before leaning out beneath the bumper and firing two shots, catching the SMG wielder in the chest. 

Troy’s hand lowered, as he shook the ringing from his ears, pushing himself up and staggering to the passenger window. “_Hey_!” He called, panicked voice breaking, “Kid—you _alive_?” 

Blanketed in pebbles of broken glass, the New Guy uncovered his head and peered up at him. Eyes wide and breath heavy, he turned his attention over his shoulder to the groans near his door. 

Leaning over the window, his frantic eyes found the fourth Vice King he clipped with the car, cradling his leg from the ground, twisted into an unnatural shape beneath bloodied jeans. 

“_You’re fuckin’ dead,” _he swore through grit teeth, face contorted in pain, sweat at his temples and teeth stained in spit and blood. 

_Young; couldn’t be much older than him._ “All you _motherfuckers are dead_!” His hand fumbled for the gun, laying out on the pavement, before the New Guy’s gaze was blocked by Troy’s back. 

Swiping his hand beneath his nose, the blonde peered down at him a moment, before he raised his wrist. 

Eyes glazed and dark, unblinking, “_Don’t look_.” 

Dipping his chin quickly, he couldn’t bring himself to watch, as Troy fired once—the revolver’s echo hovering in the air. 

Shifting his weight, Troy let his arm hang, before glancing at the side of the car—splattered in blood, and..._ugh_. 

Clenching his jaw, he stepped around the back of the car, throwing a leg over the door and slipping through the passenger window. 

“Hey, hey—_listen_ to me,” Troy urged, grabbing the New Guy’s shoulder and turning him to face him. Breath quickening, he raised black eyes to him, horrified, gaze darting between both of his—“We have to _move_, a’ite? Were you hit?” 

Closing his mouth, exhaling rapidly from his nose, he collected himself enough to shake his head. Troy nodded, a few times, eyes settling on his. “OK—Can you drive us out of here? Can you follow directions?” Calming, but still visibly shaken, he swallowed. “OK—C’mon, move—I’ll drive.” Patting his arm, he pushed him toward the backseats. The New Guy stepped over, allowing Troy to slide into the driver’s seat. After he’d done so, the car drifting slightly, Troy worked the clutch, shifting, and accelerating with a jolt toward the street. 

The New Guy, unbalanced by the car’s motion, climbed back into the passenger seat, plopping down with a heavy gulp, gun still in a trembling hand. 

“It’s about to get hot down here, OK—they’re gonna be _lookin’_ for us; there’s people around,” Troy explained, voice calm but firm, sirens wailing in the distance. “Chances are somebody saw the car, and those street cams?” He pointed with a ring finger, glancing up at the occasional traffic light, “They got your plates; it don’t matter if they’re _valid _or not. They know the make of this car and know to look for it—now and in the future. Normally I’d say we ditch it, but, we ain’t gonna’ do that to your baby here. A’ite? We’re gonna’ disappear for a little bit.” 

Shifting gears with ease, he turned through the streets, speeding toward the coast. “First off, we nix the cops.” _Would be pretty hard to spin this situation. _Taking his phone from his pocket, he flipped it open, glancing at it as he dialed, before pinching it between his shoulder and ear. As it rang, he returned his hand to the shifter, “...then, we get your car sprayed down and lay low for the night. Got it?” 

Nodding once, the New Guy watched him, swallowing. 

The phone clicked, staticy, gawdy music coming over the line, bringing Troy to squint ahead. 

A break in the pre-recorded elevator music—_if elevator music sounded like a chapel organ—_gave way to an overly-pleasant man’s voice.

_“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” _

“I wanna’ make a donation,” Troy said, sternly, glancing at the New Guy as he raised an eyebrow. 

“_In reverence to whom?” _

“Uh, _shit—” _Snapping his fingers, “_Alphonsus_,” he recalled, quickly, “_St. Alphonsus.”_

“_$200._” 

“I don’t _got that, _can’t I just—“ 

_“God does not accept IOU’s.” _

“Wh—? Fine, _fuck_—does God got a fuckin’ _card reader?” _

_“Debit is fine.” _

_“_Halle_-fuckin’-_lujah_,” _Troy hissed.

_“What will we be expecting you in?” _

“Zanin_ Bootlegger, 1969...?” _He looked to the New Guy, as he nodded. “Yeah, plate number…?” his voice trailed.

“438-Q69“, The New Guy murmured. 

Troy repeated it quickly. 

“_Card and the 3-digit code on the ba—“ _

_“_Yeah, yeah I got it—_cover your ears,_” he snipped at the New Guy, before reciting it from memory. After a moment, the man on the other end spoke. 

_“It is done_.” 

Troy took the phone from his ear, huffing, before he worked it back into his pocket. 

“...Right, OK—that’s the _Forgive and Forget_; it’s one of those _self-help advice hotlines_, or whatever, but if you say the right words they double as coverin’ your ass and gettin’ your plate scrubbed. I wish I _knew; _they’re a bunch of scary fuckin’ _nutcases_.” 

_Whatever they were, however they operated, their ties ran far deeper than Stilwater. Every time he investigated, he hit a wall, and suddenly found his door plastered with Sunday-School pamphlets come the next morning. _

“They’re only for emergencies,” he continued, “ and despite their _branding _they ain’t _miracle-workers_; they’re only gonna’ be able to make the car _poof_, a’ite? So, remember that. ‘_Donation’_ and ‘_Alphonsus’_. Julius could probably tell you more.” 

He nodded slowly, eyes falling to the dashboard and the cracked windshield. He leaned back in his seat, staring at nothing as Troy drove. 

The New Guy barely noticed they’d stopped, let alone that night had fallen. He lingered near the brick wall of an outdoor car wash, his _Bootlegger _parked in the bay, Troy spraying the blood and brains from the side fender with a lit cigarette between his lips. His eyes followed that thin wisp of smoke, before the sight of congealed body fluids floating toward the concrete drain flipped his stomach. 

Troy grimaced as he heard the other shambling to the curb, retching over the water pressure, the compressor starting up and—thankfully—drowning out his vomiting. 

When he returned, he slumped against the wall, eyes glassy and distant. The overhead streetlights gathered moths and mosquitoes, their clusters buzzing and zapping occasionally. Otherwise, the Row was silent, despite knowing multiple ambulances were doing their own cleanup somewhere beyond those buildings. 

Neither man spoke for the better part of the hour. The New Guy got up to puke a few more times in the gutter, while Troy vacuumed glass from the front seats and floorboards. Once that was done, they both climbed back in, Troy at the wheel again. 

Winding down the coastline street, the night was peaceful, yet the Lake thrashed the levis and rocks below. The New Guy watched the black, choppy water, cool air fanning his face before Troy slowed, turning into the same parking lot the gas station and _Freckle Bitch’s_ shared. 

Pulling up into a space nestled behind the building, he worked the shifter, before turning the key. Sitting there a moment, he ran a hand through his hair, face cast in rim light. Arm extending, he handed him back his keys, found his polo in the backseat, and opened the creaking door. 

With a slam, he wandered onto the faded asphalt, yanking the shirt over his head to cover the bloodstained one, crickets and the rumbling of the distant shoreline at his back. 

“I'm _uh_—you can drop me here,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, knuckles bruised and reddened. “I don’t know if you’re, uh…” sniffing, he tilted his head. “...call me _tacky? But_, I’m _starving, so...yeah.” _He turned, prepared for an awkward exchange—_given that the other had been puking a while_—but was surprised to see the New Guy stepping out of the car instead, closing the door behind him. 

Blinking, they stared at each other, before Troy nodded and turned his attention toward the burger joint—lit up against a darkened street. 

The two of them sat in a booth, Troy’s eyes on the window as he chewed, hunched over his burger, while the New Guy poked at a ketchup dollop with a French fry. Troy glanced at it, noticing his fixation on the ketchup. 

“...Try not to think about it,” he murmured, before taking another bite. 

“...that usually _work?” _The New Guy’s quiet, mellow voice came—substantially accented, but a hint of challenge to it. 

Troy peered at him through his loose bangs, before looking at his burger again. 

“_Depends_,” was his retort. 

The New Guy eventually ate the fry, and then another, before he leaned his elbows on the table, shoes sticking to the floor beneath them—cracked pleather cushion creaking. 

“..._Nacho,” _he said, finally. 

Troy raised his eyes, brows furrowing. He crinkled the aluminum his burger came in, starting to unwrap the second. 

“Yeah, uh…” he replied, “I don’t think they’ve got that here.” 

“..._No_,” the New Guy almost snorted after a confused pause, hanging his head, “_Me llamo Ignacio, pero me puedes llamar—”_

Mouth half full, “_huh?” _

“My _name,” _he asserted, slow hint of a grin spreading while he rubbed his eyes, “My name is _Ignacio_ but, just call me _Nacho._” 

Troy blinked, still chewing. 

“...the bet…?” He reminded, black brows raising. 

_Ding. _

“_Oh,” _Troy suddenly realized, as he squeezed his eyes shut, cringing at himself. “Yeah, man, uh—_yeah,” _he grabbed up a napkin in his hand, wiping it clean, before extending it across the table. “_Sorry, _I’m just...yeah, _tired. _Nice to _meet you.” _

Nacho peered down at his hand, before sheepishly taking it, giving it a shake. Troy slumped back in his seat and resumed the burger, draping an arm over the back of the booth, studying the other while he opened the container for his _chicken what-nots. _

“_Nacho, _huh?” He lifted his chin, “Didn’t know you were Italian.” 

The other sighed heavily, but quietly, as he pressed his forehead into his hand—allowing himself a light snicker while he took a bite. 

Gaze softening, exhaustion truly taking hold, Troy smirked and let his head to roll back over the seat comfortably. 

_Not too bad, kid—all things considered. _

After finishing their meals, Nacho drove Troy back to the church, pulling up along the street, ambulance lights still shining between the buildings a couple blocks over. 

“Thanks, man,” Troy said from the dark car interior, attempting to see through the churchyard and cemetery—yellow caution tape wafting in the breeze. 

“You’d better hunker down for the night; I don’t know where you park to sleep, but make sure it’s out of sight. I wouldn’t hang around the church much.” He shifted to get a better look, but didn’t notice any patrol cars lingering. “I’d let you crash at my place, but I don’t got a garage. You need to get this thing into a carport.” 

“The park,” Nacho said, and Troy turned to him, pondering, before nodding. 

“...I’ll look into an apartment.” He promised, “I didn’t forget.” 

Opening the door and climbing out, Troy leaned down to see through the open window. “...and, hey, I’m sorry about _all this_.” He gestured to the whole of the vehicle in its mangled state. 

_He wanted to say more, but couldn’t bring himself to. _

Nacho shrugged somberly, raising dark eyes. Patting the roof, Troy shuffled back a few steps, before Nacho shifted and drove off, idling down the street and turning out of sight. 

Sighing, Troy winced, bringing a hand up to his bruised face—swollen and hot to the touch. He found his cigarettes, bringing one to his lips, the orb of his lighter the only light on the sidewalk. 

Making his way to his car, he opened the heavy door and sat down in long-cooled seats, flip phone to his ear. 

_“_It’s done.” Troy muttered, exhaling smoke. 

_“I saw that. Quite a commotion.” _

“Yeah.”

“_How’d he do?” _Came Julius’ low tone, a twinge of curiosity up-ticking his words. 

“They’re dead. Don’t that speak for itself?” 

_“Try again,” _he asserted, bemused. 

“Fine; he did what he was_ told_.” Troy turned out of the lot, holding the phone with his shoulder so he could shift, “But, that don’t mean I think he’s ready.” 

_He didn’t actually shoot any of them. _

“_‘Course he ain’t ready, nobody’s ever ready. Knowin’ you, you babysat his ass all night.” _

“Jules—leave it _alone, _a’ite—“ Troy snapped wearily, “He did his part and it’s done; what more do you—”

_“Time is not a luxury we have, son. I need to know he can do this.” _

“Yeah, I _get that,” _Troy retorted, “and he _did. _I got pinned down and he got ‘em off me.” 

_A chuckle, “you got pinned down by some low-tier baby-bangers?” _

“Laugh it up, old man.” Troy shirked, as he rounded the lot to his place, _the little green shithole on the end, _“that’s what happened, a’ite? Now, I’ll call you tomorrow, I’m fuckin’ _tired.” _

Chuckling tapering off, his breathy words followed, “_sounds good.” _

Troy snapped the phone closed, stuffing it in his pocket and climbing out of his car. 

_Sleep couldn’t come sooner. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought a lot about how to integrate the Forgive and Forget system into the story without it being-no pun intended- deus ex machina. If it were to be exactly as it is in the game, it would effectively remove most stakes and consequences from the series, so I kept it associated with car chopping, believable-enough payoffs, and witness relocation, since I didn't want to do away with it entirely. I know that in SR2 it steered away from Catholic association, but I'm keeping it Catholic for the sake of continuity and overall biting satire.  
(St. Alphonsus Liguori is the patron saint of confessors, hence the code-word.)


	6. Casa De Nacho

His brows scrunched, freckled forehead creasing, before relaxing again. A deep inhale through his nostrils next, as he turned his head from beneath the blanket, tucking it down further into darkness. 

Hazy sunlight and the overhead rustling of tree branches greeted him, chirping birds not far away—making a racket. He didn’t mind; it was miles better than waking up to construction or car alarms, or someone trying to steal his wallet from a park bench. 

The bellowing and crinkling of the garbage bag he taped to cover the window roused him further, caught in a particularly strong breeze. He untucked his arm from beneath the pillow, leaning away, careful to mind his leg. It ached, _first thing_, itching and _pulling _alongside the visceral pain_. _Wincing, it started throbbing—not as bad as the first few nights, but it wasn’t going to let him go back to sleep. 

Nacho sat upright, slowly, yawning—back stiff, and thick, straight hair full of static from the leather seat. Parting it with his fingers, he smoothed and tucked it behind his ears, hand fumbling for the door handle. The heavy door creaked open, flooding the car with fresh air—cool, relieving, but already signs of a hot day ahead. 

He let his bare feet hang off the seat, dangling in the grass as he stretched, knees hooked over the rollbar. His hands gently extended, pressing on his thigh, careful to avoid the wound itself. Flexing his knee, he bent it slightly, clenching his jaw with every ache. Eventually, he opened his eyes, slowly, blinking up at the interior. 

The aching ribs from the absolute _ass-whooping_ he took the day before gave his leg some company, as all of it settled in—_oh, yeah. Definitely feeling it now. Maldita sea. _

Gripping the rollbar, he sat up again, slowly—rolling up his pant leg. Peeling away the old bandage, he hissed between his teeth. The wound was bruised, dark ruddy skin blotted in purple from trapped blood beneath the surface. _It looked a lot worse than it was. _It was healing, some scabbing formed at the edges of his _crap_ attempt at stitches. It did the job, at the very least—the wound was dry, _good_, and didn’t appear to be infected, _also good. _

As he extended his knee into the breeze, letting the air get to it, his pocket vibrated. Scrambling, he reached for it, flipping it open and rapidly blinking the sleep away, trying to clear his vision. 

Oh. 

Pressing the button, 

“¿Bueno?” He answered, raspy. 

_“Nacho?” _

“¿_Sì_?” 

“Hey man, it’s Troy,” his voice was crisp, on the other hand, as if he’d been awake a while. Nacho exhaled through his nose, briefly—_embarrassing himself already. _

“_Sì, _b_-buenas_,” he stammered, attempting to shake the grogginess away. “_W’ssup_?” 

“Uh—_how uh_, how’re _things_?” Troy paced his living room, hand idly toying with the fine hair at the nape of his neck, “Did you get through the night OK?” 

“Nobody saw me,” he replied, untangling the blanket and stuffing it into a ball in the backseat. “I went back to the park.” 

“_Good, _that’s good.” Troy murmured, a little awkwardly. “It looks uh—_all clear_ over here; no signs of anybody tailin’ us. I think them guys did their job, so, you should be straight to come by the church.” 

Nacho looked up, fear stirring in his expression, before it hardened. “...job to do?” 

“Uh…” Troy’s voice tapered off, “_no_—no, nothin’ like that. At least, uh, not _yet. _We can’t make a move ‘til we build up our _rep_, ‘n all, so…” 

“Then…?” Nacho started, confused, “...what’chu need?” 

“Right, _yeah_, so..._uh_, listen—I know it’s still kinda _early_, and you don’t _gotta_, or nothin’, but I got some good news. I talked to my landlord and there’s a house for rent up here in Mission Beach.” 

Nacho’s eyes brightened and he smiled, but froze, “money’s going to be a problem._” _

“Don’t worry about it right now,” Troy assured, “my landlord’s cool. He just wants a deposit, it’s doable.” 

“_¿Cuánto cuesta?” _

“_Wussat?” _

_“_How much?” Nacho asked, rubbing his eyes. 

“_Dunno yet_—look, I said _don’t worry about it_.” 

“I can’t keep _borrowing_.” 

“Hey, hey—there ain’t any strings attached, here. I can’t let ya’ sleep in a car full of holes. Look, we’ll talk about it when ya’ get here.” 

Sighing, Nacho ran a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp. “Te pagaré tan _pronto_ como pueda.” 

“Sure—whatever_, de nada. _‘Kay_?” _Troy’s floor creaked as he reached for his coffee mug, leaving a ring behind on a decluttered table. “So, you wanna go look at this place or not?” 

“..._Ahora mismo?” _

_“_Wh—_yes, _right now.” He snipped, bringing Nacho to smirk, somewhat triumphantly. 

“...OK,” he shrugged, “the Church…?” 

“No, uh—just drop by _my place, _if that’s a’ite—quicker that way.” Troy shifted his weight, taking a sip. “So you’re comin’ down 295, right?” 

“..._Um,” _Nacho squinted, closing his eyes, before nodding, “_Sí_.” 

“‘Kay, well, take the last exit, _1-A_, I believe, to Mission Beach, make a left at the off-ramp, keep goin straight ‘til you come to the China Restaurant. Make a right into that group of houses there; there’s a big parkin’ lot. It’s right on the beach, the lil’ green one. There's two of 'em, but, mine's the one on the end. Need a text?” 

“No, I got it.” 

“‘Kay. I’ll be out front. Bye.” 

Nacho took the phone away, pressing the button, letting his hands drop to his thighs. He sat there a moment, wind on his face, toes in the grass, before a tired grin spread over freckled, bruised cheeks. 

Troy dragged a plastic storage bin to his coffee table, popping off the lid. Grabbing up the piles of folders, papers, and notebooks, he stacked them in the container, one by one, until the top domed. Snapping the top back on, he pushed it across the floor to the closet, skidding against the wood, stashing it away behind hanging winter clothes. Leaning up, he sighed, glancing at his watch. 

_Didn’t plan on doing any reports for awhile, anyway. _

Another quick sweep of his living room turned up nothing incriminating—_ha_. 

_Can’t be too careful. _

He picked up a T-shirt draped over the couch, smelling it—_seemed fine, _and pulled it over his head. The bag of frozen peas he’d nurtured his face with the night before still sat on the counter, a puddle of condensation collecting under it. 

Taking to his front porch, he sipped his second cup of coffee, cigarette between his fingers. He leaned on his hand, casually peeling away chips of paint from the concrete stoop. 

Lifting his chin, he shielded his eyes from the sun, gazing at the clear, cloudless blue sky.

_Hot. _

_Already. _

_Again. _

Reclining on the stairs, he smoked quietly, nodding at a passerby neighbor that waved from the kiddie park across the lot. Eyes following them as they passed, he heard the hemi engine somewhere beyond the buildings, downshifting and rounding the corner. 

Sitting up, he got to his feet and leaned on the bannister, watching as the car ambled up the lot. Raising a hand in greeting, he leaned off, stepping down the stairs while Nacho turned into one of the parking spaces, a few over from his _Vegas. _

Seeing the bullet holes again, and the bag taped inside the back window, Troy grimaced. _It looked a lot worse in broad daylight. _Nacho eventually opened the door, a reserved, polite nod in greeting as he stepped out. 

Peering around the lot, a long strip of antiquated houses skirted the coastline, the _‘beach’_ part of Mission Beach. Once, before the lot was built and infrastructure moved in, they all probably had the _lawns_ and the _fences_—a regular vacation getaway, built to maximize profits on the encroaching floodwaters in the 70s. Now, it was run-down and sketchy, with endlessly peeling paint and water spots. The pier, however, was _cute_, surprisingly _clean_ and sandwiched between two highway bridges stretching across the water. The traffic and noise of Brighton’s high rises in the distance drowned in the ebbing water just beyond the fencing. 

“This the place?” Nacho asked, quietly, as he shut his door, Troy coming to meet him. The blonde shook his head, inhaling his cigarette. 

“Nah, yours is up the street a bit.” 

Somewhat disappointed, Nacho looked back at the coast, before the shimmering plum car grabbed his attention, catching all the morning sun in its pearl paint. 

“¡_No manches!_” he halfway gasped, somewhat dumbfounded, before he gestured with a nod, limping slightly to lean on his _Bootlegger’s_ hood for support. “That _yours?” _

Smirking, it was Troy’s turn to look at his shoes. He nodded as he dropped the cigarette butt to the concrete, stepping on it, exhaling his last puff. “_Yup_.” 

“You got it doin’ Saints work?” 

“Yeah, _sorta_—here and there, savin’ up.” He cleared his throat, “Always _wanted one_, so…Everybody's got those new cars, y’know, _European_, real _sleek types_. Gotta’ look good if you want to catch the public’s eye, and for them, that’s what they go for. ...‘Cept for _Lin_, she likes them _tuners_, y’know…” he chuckled, lightly, “Ah, them things look like _toys_, between _you and me_. Like, what you’d get in a _fun-bag_, with the little windup dial on the side—? _Don’t tell ‘er I said that_.” 

Tilting his head, “Who’s Lin?” 

“Oh,” Troy quickly added, “you haven’t met her, yet. But, _yeah. _These are uh—_different, _y’know? These got..._uh_,” 

“...history_.” _Nacho finished, with a subtle smile. 

“Yeah…” he scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, _exactly_, they _do.” _

_Really putting all that out there, huh? _

“You ever think of bringing it to the track?” A glint of excitement moved into his eyes, and Troy clicked his tongue. 

“_Ah_...I dunno_.” _

“If it were me...” Nacho started, bringing his brows to raise. _Well, that gets him talking. _“Competitive, _very_, if you don’t _mind_ that sort of thing. Lots of people, _food_, lasts _all weekend_. Cash too, if you win.”

“No kidding,” Troy commented, studying him. _Suddenly he was making sense. _“I’ll tell ya what—I’ll _think about it._ I’m low thrills. _High blood pressure,_ and all that.” 

The other scoffed, glancing at him challengingly. “Why not a _bicycle_, then?” 

“_Hey_,” Troy quipped, “You wanna see this house or not?” 

Nodding, he lowered his eyes sheepishly, still smiling to himself. Troy turned on his heel, waving him to follow. 

“It’s about a block from here. You a’ite to be walkin’?” 

Nodding again, Nacho followed, Troy peering skeptically at his limp. Eventually he took him for his word, starting down the sidewalk. “Now as far as _slumlords_ go, he ain’t so bad. Pay your shit on time, don’t _trash it,_ the usual.” 

“...there a lease?” 

Looking over his shoulder at him, “Uh..._yeah_, that’s how rentin’ _works_.” 

Eyes lidding, Nacho’s expression turned exasperated, and Troy’s forehead creased. “..._what_? What’s the problem?” 

“Don’t they get in your _business_?”

Pausing, he quirked a brow. “You mean a uh…” he made circles with his hand, “uh—a _background_ check?” 

“Sí, a eso me refería.” 

“...’_Kay, _well, _no.” _He shook his head, “you’re in the Row; don’t gotta worry about that.” _Interesting. _“Just sign, and hand over the cash.” 

Saying nothing, Nacho chewed his lip, following. 

They passed the China Restaurant, having already started cooking for the day—smoky, sweet aroma wafting clear out into the street. Nacho studied the signage, as Troy chimed in, pointing with a thumb, “that place’s _awesome.” _

“Ah sí?” 

“Yup. Guarantee you’ll gain twenty pounds livin’ up here, easy; it’s like _crack. _Those old ladies don’t rest until you’re _rollin’_ yourself out.” 

Snickering, Nacho followed as they crossed another street, coming up to a red brick duplex with an attached garage. Across the road directly ahead was a park; trees and bushes in full bloom. Nacho blinked as he watched butterflies take refuge in the foliage, the shade cast over the concrete benches enticing. 

“This is it,” Troy said, gesturing, as he was taking his phone from his pocket. “Carport, and whatnot. Good place to stash your car, keep it outta’ sight. Gimme’ a sec.” 

Nacho walked toward the green wooden front door, noticing the mailbox with a baffled grin—_“whorehouse” _crudely sprayed across the rusted metal. 

_Classy_. 

“Yeah—OK. Oh, you’re on the road now?” he listened, looking up to watch Troy pace. He hung his head as he made lazy circles, hair falling loosely in his face. Nacho smirked to himself when he saw him reach to vainly comb it back again with his fingers. “Right, oh yeah, yeah—he’s here. Sounds good.” 

He looked away just as Troy snapped the phone shut. “He’ll be over in a minute,” he informed. “Seriously, you got nothin’ to worry about. It’s quiet in these parts; as quiet as the Row can be, anyway. Once it gets around a Saint lives here nobody’ll fuck with ya’. I mean, I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of..._y’know_,” his voice trailed off, before he corrected himself, “I just mean that—_uh_, I know shit’s _rough_ when ya’ got nowhere to go. A lot of the time the alternative ain’t pretty.” 

Nacho shrugged, eyes falling to the concrete. 

Troy chewed his lip, before lifting his chin, “...how long you been out on the street, anyhow?” He quickly added, “Er—if you don’t _mind me askin’, _that is. Just need to know if uh...there’s somethin’ Julius and I should worry about.” 

“Eight months,” Nacho told him, quietly. 

“_Jesus_, man…”

“_Ni modo._” Shrugging again, he smiled sadly. “..._Shit happens.” _

“Right, right...yeah.” Troy exhaled, uncomfortable, shifting his weight and looking at his shoes again. _Don’t ask if you can’t handle the answer._ Rubbing the back of his neck, “Well, hopefully we’ll get ya’ hooked up here. If ya’ like the place.” 

Tilting his head to peer up at it, Nacho squinted in the sun. 

“Pretty sure.” 

“Well, wait and see. Could be a hole in the ground for all we know.” 

Nacho smiled, quietly, as the other continued to fidget. Just as he was about to speak again, he turned, watching a car approach. “Oh—that’s our guy now.” 

A crappy _Zimos _pulled up onto the curb, lights dimming, before a man in the later half of his forties stepped out. Popped collar on a loud shirt, oversized necklace, pants worn a bit too high, all complemented with hair resembling an oil spill. _His hairdresser must’ve given up halfway. _

Nacho watched the character approach and shake Troy’s hand, appearing to be in a hurry. 

“Nacho, this is—”

“Lucas Domingo,” he informed, hastily, extending a hand to him. “Cityside _Luxury Apartments.” _

Nacho shook it, grinning, as Troy rolled his eyes. He took a business card from his wallet, stuffed full of a hundred others, offering it between two fingers. “My card—_español está en la parte de atrás_.” 

Nacho took it, turning it over, to see that it was blank. “See, that’s a _joke_, because it’s just my name and number.” He explained to Troy, as he stood with furrowed eyebrows, clearly confused. “Ah, _eres buena gente_.” He chuckled, bringing Nacho to smirk again as he tucked the card away in his pocket. Clapping his hands together, “OK, _luxury apartment _time.” 

Taking out his keys, he stepped quickly to the door, fumbling through the ring. “One bedroom, one bath, garage as you can see. Neighbors are _eh,” _he tilted his hand, “Guy’s a bit _crazy_, but give him a wide berth and you should be fine. I need rent on first of the month. Gas and water included. Electric is your problem. You kids nowadays need _internet_, right?” Nacho shrugged, “well, it’s got _dial-up.” _

Getting the door open, he stepped in, “ah—here we go. This is the main entrance, _eccetera eccetera_,” Nacho followed behind him, noting the tile floor and paneled walls. “Kitchen here to your right, big _open-concept, _very _modern.” _Dramatizing, he waved to the living room. “Closet over there, bathroom over there…” 

“Give us five minutes, Lucas.” Troy said from behind him, Nacho wandering into the kitchen. 

“Sure thing, take your time—unless it’s _longer than five minutes._” He laughed, once, before tilting his head. “I’ll get the paperwork.” 

Troy raised an eyebrow as Lucas stepped around him, leaving the two of them to stand there. Nacho gazed around—high ceilings, wood floors, two large windows flooding the living room with sunlight, stripped green paint accenting the door jambs. The kitchen was spacious, stretched along the wall, dated, lemon-colored appliances appearing _very dated. _

_Charming, in a way. _

_“_The fuck’s up with this _sink?” _Troy balked, shattering the silence. Nacho turned to see him hunch over it, appearing to _sniff it_. “_Christ_, somebody cook _meth_ in this thing?” His voice cracked as he leaned up, “_Look at this._ Need a tetanus shot just standin’ here.” 

A smile spread over his face as he watched the other move to the closet next. 

Opening it, “...it’s _carpeted_. Of all the things to be carpeted, the fuckin’ _closet_ is.” He coughed, closing it, waving the dust away. “And the asbestos is a _nice touch_.” 

“It’s _roomy_,” Nacho commented, turning around several times, envisioning a potential layout. _The air was cool, too, even without an AC. _“I like all the wood.” 

Troy was less than impressed, opening the bathroom door and crouching down to scope the baseboards. 

“Yeah, well, no sign of _bugs,” _he called, reproachfully. “Can’t tell ya how many _little surprises _I found at my place. What I get for havin’ to live on the water, I guess.” 

“No bats?” Nacho joked, Troy’s head turning suddenly from the dark bathroom. Snickering, “They come from the caverns.” 

“Ah, _hell no,” _the other stood, shuddering. “Can keep all _that.” _

_“_They’re _just bats_.” 

“_No, fuck that,” _he said slightly louder, shaking his arms out at the thought, “fly around and try to _land on ya’ and shit, nuh-uh_.”

“Should see the _rats_.” Nacho added, clearly amused. “They’re like, _cat-big._ And the _roaches—” _

_“_OK, man!” The other whipped around with a tight smile. “I’m _gettin’ the picture_, a’ite? _Cool_, great. ‘Scuse me while I barf in your fuckin’ _meth sink.” _

Restraining his chuckling, Nacho raised his head as Lucas returned, application and lease in hand. 

“Alrighty, so here’s all the deskwork. I should probably add that there’s a _laundry hookup_ in the garage,” he told him as he set the paperwork down on the kitchen counter. “Any opportunity to avoid the mat is worth it, in my opinion.” 

Coming to stand beside him, Nacho looked at the application, flipping it over to the Spanish side—_not blank this time. _

“So, what do you think?” Lucas asked as he leaned in with folded arms. “You _like_?” 

Nacho nodded, “me lo quedo.” 

“_Bueno,” _Lucas took a pen from his shirt pocket, clicking it and handing it over, “fill out that application; it’s just a formality. If you get the deposit to me it can be yours by this afternoon.” 

“What’s the damage?” Troy asked, joining them. 

“$500,” Lucas replied, “a steal. $250 deposit.” 

Glancing at Nacho, “this place’ll do it for ya, huh?” 

Filling out the paperwork on the counter, Nacho nodded without looking up. Shrugging, Troy reached into his back pocket. Thumbing through his wallet, he folded the money and handed it to Lucas. Nacho raised his head, alarmed, shooting Troy a panicked look. “...I said don’t _worry about it,” _he reminded. “_Julius’ orders_, not me.” 

“Thank you very much,” Lucas said with a wide smile, pocketing it. “I’ll knock that $100 off your rent like I promised, for the referral.” 

_Suddenly making sense, _Nacho raised an eyebrow at Troy, who avoided his gaze. Relenting, “...win-win, here.” 

Sighing, Nacho finished the application. The lease was next, and Lucas walked him through it in Spanish—Troy unable to follow. Eventually, Nacho scrawled his initials where needed, until signing the final page. Troy raised an eyebrow, tilting his head casually, trying to decipher the handwriting as nonchalantly as possible. 

_That’s not his name. _

“Well, gentlemen, that about does it.” Lucas smiled, rolling up the packet and tucking it under his arm. Taking the keys from his pocket, he worked it off the key ring, presenting the dangling key between pinched fingers. Nacho opened a palm, and he dropped it in, a pleased smile on his face. 

With a nod to them both, he shook their hands again, before turning to leave. “You got my number. Call if there’s anything you need.” 

“Yeah, uh—_about that,_” Troy interjected. 

“Unless it’s the dishwasher,” he retorted from the hallway, before shutting the front door. 

Troy blinked, peeved, before turning his attention to Nacho.

“...Well, there ya’ have it. I’m good on my word. Get you some furniture, a _shower...” _

Nacho turned his head to give his own underarm a concerned sniff, and then _another _for good measure, pausing. “Er—“ Troy hastily began again, “not that you _stink or nothin’. _I just meant...well, it’s _your place_ now. You ever have a place of your own before?” Shaking his head, he smoothed out his T-shirt once he was convinced he wasn’t repugnant. “Ah, congrats then. _Casa de Nacho.” _

“Gracias,” Nacho nodded, eyes on the floor, voice somewhat solemn. “_Me has ayudado mucho_.”

“Huh? What’sa matter?” Troy asked. “It needs a good scrubbin’, like, with _bleach—a **lot**_ of _bleach, _but it ain’t too bad. _Roomy_, like you said. I was just _kiddin’ before, _y’know—” 

“It’s not that,” he shrugged, “I _mean_ it.” 

“...mean _what_?” 

“Thank you,” he repeated. 

Troy opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. After a lingering silence, he furrowed his eyebrows, shifting his weight to the other foot. 

“_Look_, it’s no big deal; I told you yesterday that a couple hundred bucks ain’t _shit_ once you get goin’ on this stuff.” 

“It’s not just about _the money,” _uncomfortable, he attempted to actualize his thoughts. “Yesterday, and...last _week,_ you and Sr. _Little.” _

Troy swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. 

Nacho bobbed somewhat with the words, avoiding looking at him directly, “I never got to...I wanted to _say_ somethin’, but…” 

“Nah—you don’t gotta’ say nothin’,” Troy interrupted, shaking his head while averting his gaze. “_Do, _don’t _say. _The Saints look out for each other,” he lifted his chin—_who’s talking, right now, Bradshaw? _“That’s what sets us apart from those other motherfuckers. We help you, you help us. In the future, once things are lookin’ up for you, you’re expected to do the same for your own crew.” 

“Sí,” he replied, quietly. 

“‘Kay?” Troy raised his eyebrows, the other nodding slowly. “_A’ite_. Now, hopefully we don’t gotta have this conversation again. It’s _cool_; just roll with it.” 

Suddenly too warm, he ducked his head, reaching for his smokes as he started for the front door. 

Leaning against the garage door, he smoked in silence, waving away the occasional stray sweat bee. 

Eyes set ahead on the park, eventually Nacho rejoined him. His black tresses hung just above his shoulders, wet and dripping onto his collar, nearly _blue_ in the sunlight. Russet, freckled cheeks held a damp sheen, as he rubbed water from his eyes and clumped lashes. 

Raising an eyebrow, Troy exhaled smoke. “Better?” 

“Water’s hot,” Nacho commented, as he worked the silky strands behind his ears. 

“Please tell me you didn’t dunk your head in that _sink.” _

“_No_,” the other snorted. 

Nodding as he took a drag, “Y’know, a _thought occurred _about how you could make it up to me. _All this,_ y’know, since it’s eatin’ ya.” 

Nacho looked up, more than a little spooked, but preparing himself—fists balling at his sides. 

Troy continued, elaborating, “...once you get that washer and dryer hooked up, huh? Lemme’ come by now and then. I fuckin’ _hate_ the laundromat.”

Shoulders relaxing, Nacho stared at him, scoffing lightly. Peering at him from the corner of his eye, Troy smirked lazily. “...that’s fair, right?” 

The shorter man eventually nodded, hiding his own smile as he focused on his boot, scuffing the concrete again, while Troy stepped on his cigarette.

“Let’s head back to my place—get your car, and shit. I might have some stuff layin’ around you could have. Dishes, at least—I mean, I never cook. Shouldn’t be too hard to furnish this place since there’s curb dumps everywhere, garage sales, what have ya’.” 

“I been _thinkin’_,” Nacho said suddenly as he took to the door, locking up. “We need people to _like us, _right?” 

“_Yeah_, see, that’s how it works,” Troy demonstrated, hand making circles. “We can’t just be another _Vice Kings_, or another _Carnales_. People won’t volunteer information ‘less they think you’re worth a damn...and we don’t have the muscle to _beat it_ out of ‘em. Like I said, we can’t make a move until people know the Saints are good on their word, or worth helpin’.” 

“How we ‘sposed to do that?” He asked, joining him at his side as they started toward the sidewalk, “Sr. Little said—”

“Man, I’m gonna _lose it_ if you keep callin’ him that,” Troy groaned. “It’s _Julius_. Old man’s got a _big enough head_ as it is.” 

“..._Julius_,” Nacho corrected, hesitantly, “...he says to help, but how?” 

“That’s the thing. Gotta’ get around and talk to people, see what they need. _It’s good business_, in a lot of 

ways.”

“...business?” 

“Yeah, like—say grandma gets her car repo’d, ‘kay, but the cops are doin’ _fuck-all_. Grandma can’t take a baseball bat to someone’s kneecaps, but, _you can_.” 

“The Saints..._kneecap people.” _He finished, flatly. 

“Well, _yes and no_, but I think you’re missin’ the point, here. You help people? They help you.” 

“Saints do _charity_,” Nacho posed, bringing Troy’s brow to raise. “...so, I _been thinkin’_.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“3rd Street _is_ history. They grow up hearin’ it. No _Row, _no Stilwater. History means _pride,” _he brought a fist to his chest, Troy glancing at him as they walked. “We remind them why they are proud. Why they are best.” 

“‘Kay, I _follow_, but…?” 

“People like _fun_. No matter _how_ badass, _nobody_ wants to talk about a shooting.”

“You make it sound like you wanna’ have a fuckin’ _bake sale,_ man.” 

Nacho smirked, a touch of orneriness in his shiny eyes, “Said it yourself: gotta’ look sexy for the public.” 

“_Pretty sure I didn’t say that—”_

“I’m talkin’ about a certain car that is very fast, and very _purple_.” 

“You mean—” he stopped, raising a hand. “This is all an elaborate scheme to get me to _go to that fuckin’ racetrack,_ ain’t it?” 

“_Win-win_,” Nacho shrugged, teasing, bringing the other to tilt his head coyly at him. “Think about it; I take some shoe polish,” he held up his hand as if he were holding a pen, “_fleur-de-lis_,” he motioned with a flourish, “we go and we _win, _it gets around the Saints got style. Classic cars from a classic place. Reminding Stilwater who they are.” 

“You realize if we open that can of worms, everyone who isn’t so keen on _Stilwaterian_ _identity_ is gonna’ want us dead, right?” 

“Nobody _dare_ make trouble,” Nacho shook his head. “Risk the cops comin’ and shuttin’ the whole place down.”

“You think the cops don’t know about it already?” He asked, as they neared his house again, “big operation like that, gamblin’?” 

“_Dunno’_,” he shrugged, “the Old Highway falls between two jurisdictions. Before it sunk, that part of the archipelago was in another county. Technically, the cops can’t investigate here. That’s what I heard.” 

_Shit, that makes sense. _

“...You think this is gonna’ get us respect. _Really_?” 

“_Absolutely_,” the other replied incredulously. “_Especially_ if we kick ass. _Somebody_ will wanna’ get in on it. _We_ make money, _they_ make money.” 

“You’re talkin’ about findin a sponsor.” 

“Somebody supports us, another gang loses out. Income. Then, we sponsor ourselves.” 

_And nobody has to get shot. _

_At least, not right away. _

Troy clicked his tongue as he came to his front steps, turning, and sitting down. 

“This is some _PR_ shit, man.” Squinting up at him, “you said it’s a weekend thing.” 

“...starts tonight, actually.” Nacho shrugged, bashful. 

“Ah—_yeah_, funny how that works,” Troy squinched an eye at him, skeptically, as he reached for his pack of cigarettes. 

“Start of the season, too.” The other added, nonchalantly, with a guilty smile. “...Still got time to sign up.” 

“_Uh-huh_.” He tapped the bottom of the pack against the stoop to loosen one, before leaning forward and hooking his hands, arms propped on his knees. “...So what sort of shit would I need—_hypothetically speaking_—to qualify for this?” 

“Slicks. Can probably get away with no bars.” 

“Uh-huh,” Troy tilted his head, taking a cigarette between his lips. “And?” 

“Long sleeves,” he brushed his hand over his own arm, “closed-toe shoes. Helmet.” 

“Need that _funky seatbelt_ too, right?” 

“Sí.” 

“They’re really gonna’ have to tear my car up, you know that?” 

Shrugging, he looked at the ground, leaning his weight on his other leg. Troy was flicking his lighter, shaking it, and flicking it again before he shielded it to the wind. Eventually he lit his cigarette, a cloud of smoke leaving his nostrils, as he leaned his chin on his palm. 

“...well,” he said eventually, before glancing up at him. “What they were made for, right?” 

A grin stretched across Nacho’s face, gap in his front teeth flashing, as he averted his eyes again. Troy scratched his temple, strands of errant hair falling in his eyes. “...A’ite, _fine_. We’ll do this.”

_“¿Neta?” _Nacho exclaimed, brightly. 

“But _don’t tell Julius._” Troy pointed, cigarette in hand. “We’re supposed to be doin’ _serious shit_, but I’m gonna take a chance on you, New Guy.” 

He nodded, closing his lips into a tight smile, before he turned on his heel, limping quickly to his car. “H—hey!” Troy called, outstretching his hands. “What _the f_—Where you goin’?” 

“Be right back,” the other replied, “I gotta’ get somethin.” He waved him off as he opened the door to his Bootlegger, climbing in. 

Troy let his hands drop, taking a drag, watching as he started the engine, shifted, and pulled out of the lot. 

As the car disappeared down the street, Troy returned to his lazy slouching, glancing over his shoulder at his car, parked, still gleaming in the midday sun. 

_What did I get myself into? _


	7. Diaulos Raceway

“I appreciate this.” 

Troy leaned against red toolboxes, stacked so high the top was level with his head, puffing on his cigarette with folded arms. Compressors, toolbenches, and metal cabinets lined the walls, alongside posters and outdated calendars of pin-up girls, hot rods, and previous jobs the owner was particularly proud of.

_Cheesy, but it wasn’t his shop. _

The garage shielded them from the sun, empty save for the _In-Violet_ _Vegas, _having been nearly dissected. 

The mechanic, a lean man in his late thirties stepped around the back end of the car, using his foot to scoot away the floor creeper. He scratched the back of his neck absentmindedly, dark ashy skin and purple bandana coated in a fine dusting of sanded body plaster, all over his olive coveralls, down to his splattered boots. 

His previous focus was evidenced by the freshly-primed pieces of bodywork in the next bay over, hanging from the ceiling on clothes hangers. There was a lingering chemical smell, a mixture of car paint, gasoline, and oil—punctuated by the thin wisp of grape-flavored smoke coming from his lit cigar. 

“Should be good to go soon. Rollbar’s in, _purple to match, _got a guy bringin’ the slicks over. All’s left is the front seat, which I’m fixin’ to replace now.” He brought the cigar to his lips, holding it there. “Other than that, I’d say it’ll handle like a dream at the track.” 

“Thanks, Samson.” Troy said a bit sleepily, “give me an estimate on what I owe.” 

“_Ah—_nah, man, you bought the parts. Consider the rest _thanks_,” he shuffled, smiling at the floor, before his tone dropped. “...For clearin’ those assholes out. Which reminds me, I’ve been meanin’ to ask.” His brows raised, Troy meeting his gaze curiously, an edge of reproach in the way he kept his arms crossed. 

“Yeah?” 

“Is it true that _new kid_ in your crew mowed a guy down?” His shoulders stooped with some _awe_, “Just _ploughed_ right through ‘em?” 

_“My crew,”_ Troy repeated with a snort, chuckling dryly. “Where’d you hear that?” 

“Word gets around. That’s _something else_.”

“...People talkin’ already?” 

He scoffed, “_Yeah_ they are; it made the _news_.”

Troy’s breath hitched, before he let his head hang. A somewhat defeated sigh, carried on a puff of smoke, left parted lips. 

_Great_.

Raising his hand, he rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I was hoping it’d stay _quiet_.” His fingers flexed, “What’ve ya’ heard?” 

“That a white boy and some _indito _kidin amuscle car took out six guys in one swing, DOA.” 

Troy frowned. 

_Even better. _

“..._Yeah_, well.” He lowered his eyes to the poured concrete floors, hand dropping, masking his irritation. “I figured it was you that tipped off Julius.” 

“About the VK? Yeah; can’t have that shit goin’ on near my shop. It didn’t used to be _like this_, ya’ know? My pops ran this place long before those _Carnales _turned up, and managed to keep his distance. Now, them VK charge in here like that? _Shit,_” Some disdain moved into his voice, “if I got _robbed_, I’d be royally fucked. Some of these tools are older than me. I’d be out of business.”

“We wouldn’t let that happen,” Troy shook his head, raising brown eyes to his, “which is why I need to pay for my shit.” 

“Well, I respect that. But, I don’t do this often. Most the Saints drive _tin cans,_ and the other lieutenants take theirs to other people.” 

“I know you do good work.” Troy told him, genuinely. “...I have to do _something_.” 

“Buy me a beer once you win,” he said with a nod, “tell everybody that _‘oohs’_ and _‘ahhs’_ over this _grandpappy_ who it was that fixed it up—and I’ll call it even.” 

“...’Kay, but,” Troy raised an eyebrow. “What for?” 

“There’s a lot of mechanics out of _Little Shanghai _known around town—real hotshots, _rollin’_ in mom and pop’s cash, shops with all that _fancy_ shit. Last I heard, the guy out in Encanto got stuffed _in a wheelchair_—I hear it was over choppin’ cars, so he’s out of the game. Ain’t nobody known from the Row. With muscle cars attached to me, _plus_ that stunt yesterday? Hell,” he smiled, “I’m down for that hick-shit.” 

“..._A’ite_,” Troy relented, some doubt in his voice. “If that’s what you really want, ‘course it’s a deal.” 

_Running out of cash, anyway. _

_End of the month’s going to be cup-noodles and ketchup—if not dog food from a state prison, if that shit keeps up. _

Samson grinned again, and turning, he chewed on the plastic tip of his cigar. 

“Have to ask, what made you want to turn this sweet thing into a racer? I thought it was just a show-car situation when I hooked you up with it.” 

“I’ve lost my fuckin’ _marbles_, I guess.” He scratched his forehead with a thumb, looking down at his phone. Clicking through the messages, he glanced up again. “...anything else you think it’ll need?” 

“Not right this minute, no. It’s tuned up; steel valve stems, flywheel shield…” he counted off on his fingers, “...should be good enough to race as is. Need your window nets, but those are coming too.” 

“By tonight?” 

“Yep.” 

“…’Kay,” Troy murmured to himself, before he looked up, hearing the rumble of the hemi engine down the road. Leaning off the toolboxes, he nodded at Samson. “That’s the New Guy rollin’ with me.” 

_Apparently. _

“Ah, cool—been curious,” Samson grinned. “I’ve got some work for him, if you think he’d be up for it.” 

“Uh, I dunno’ man, that’s_ his deal_. But—,” Troy interjected, “he’s still _green_, so, I’d appreciate keepin’ it zipped about the whole..._last night_, thing, OK?” He waved a hand, “...Also, uh—he’s not a real big _talker. _It’s nothin’ _personal, _I don’t think. He’s just..._like that_, y’know?” 

“Oh,” Samson seemed a little startled, but nodded anyway. “Yeah...no problem; my little nephew’s _mute_, so, I get it.” Letting his arms swing to his sides idly, he stepped around to the passenger window, “I’m gonna’ get goin’ on this, then.” 

“Thanks.” Troy said, as the other set to work on removing the seat. 

Turning his eyes to the lot, Troy stepped out onto sun-baked concrete, watching as the rusted _Bootlegger_ rolled into view, ambling for the shade cast by the building. 

It came to a smooth stop, Troy plucking the cigarette from his lips and scratching his head, squeezing an eye shut to the bright sun. Exhaling smoke as Nacho opened the door, his tired eyes dropped to the bullet holes again. 

“Glad you found this place a’ite,” He commented, “but what was all that about, huh?” Nacho glanced up at him, smirking as though he had some _secret._ “You took _off_ on me.” 

“Had to get something,” he repeated, softly, through his reserved smile. 

“Oh yeah?” Troy asked, tilting his head. “Whassat?” 

Nacho held up an index finger, leaning over into the backseat. Stepping out and closing the door, Troy tilted his head further to see, but Nacho angled his body away. 

Eventually he approached, and taking it from beneath his arm, he brought the black helmet into view. Placing a hand over it, it _thumped_ with his palm, and his mouth twisted while he searched for his words.

“...Figured you didn’t want to spend $300 on an approved bucket,” he told him, finally, somewhat _embarrassed_ standing there.

Eventually, he handed it over, in a single awkward motion. 

Troy furrowed his brows as he peered down at the full-faced helmet—black fiberglass, striped with gunmetal trimmings, catching all the sun and his warped reflection. Glancing at Nacho’s face, and then back down again, he eventually lifted his hands.

“...you uh—“ he paused, for what felt like _too long, _taking it. “This is, uh...?” 

“My old one,” Nacho clarified. “...Should fit.” 

Troy raised his eyebrows, turning it in his hands, before noting Nacho’s general discomfort. 

_Again with the kicked-dog look. _

He opened the visor, using his lips to edge the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, “...What makes you think I want your smelly _old helmet, huh?” _

“Keep your brains where they belong,” Nacho smirked, rolling his shoulders, eyes on his boots. 

“_Yeah_, shouldn’t have to worry about that,” the other quipped as he leaned his head back, letting gravity take his hair out of his face. Pulling the helmet down over his head, it fit snugly against his chin. With a muffled voice, “I am notoriously _thick-skulled._” Nacho snuck a glance at the other, smirking, raising studded brows.

Troy extended his hands, lifting his head, cigarette poking out over the chin guard. “How ‘bout it, huh?” 

“_Eh,” _Nacho tilted his hand with a scrunched nose, grinning, bringing Troy to click his tongue indignantly. “How’s your car?” 

“Ah, yeah—c’mon inside a sec’,” he gestured, taking off the helmet, hair now a wild mess in the choked breeze. “I want you to meet somebody.” 

Returning to the garage, helmet under his arm, Troy gestured to Samson as he worked a ratchet on the baseboard bolts. Pushing his hair back out of his eyes, futilely, “Nacho, this is my man Samson. He does all things greasemonkey for the Saints.” 

Samson glanced up through the windshield, over the dashboard, before ducking back out—head narrowly escaping a collision with the door frame. Leaning on the roof with folded arms, he nodded at him, bright smile offsetting the dust on his cheeks. 

“Nice to meet you, kid—Troy was tellin’ me about you.” 

Suddenly quiet, Nacho allowed a reserved smile, walking up to him with an extended hand. 

After a brief shake, Samson tilted his head, nodding toward the lot. 

“Sweet ride you got there. Shame she’s all tore up like that, though. I’ll tell you what,” he said as he leaned off, glancing down at the seats. “If you leave it here, I’ll get a new coat of paint on it, get the dings out—I’m real good with _bullet holes_, at this point. Can get it out of here by the end of the weekend. And—” he added quickly, pointing a gloved finger, “Don’t worry about _payin’ me_. I heard what you did yesterday, and, well, those guys were a _real problem_.” Troy shot him a look—a loaded glare, but he ignored him. “My way of saying thanks.” 

Sighing quietly, Troy folded his arms, while Nacho nodded after a few moments. He studied the way he carried himself after such a comment. 

_Seems alright._

He didn’t know _why_ he was that _damn concerned_ to begin with, though. 

_Could only listen to a guy vomit for so long, maybe. _

_Or sit up all night wondering if the cops grabbed him. _

_...To the point where he couldn’t stand to turn on the news that morning. _

“Good shit, then,” Samson said as he dipped back into the car, speaking over the clicking of the ratchet. “Will get her fixed up good as new. Better, even. I do a _damn good_ paint job.” 

Looking around the shop, Nacho noted the photos on the walls and the pieces hanging, a grin creeping over his lips. “What color you want it, anyway? Purple like this baby? I did this one, case you were curious. Our boy here wanted _classy.” _

He winked teasingly at Troy, who scoffed, puffing on his cigarette. 

Nacho stared at the _Vegas _a long while, before shaking his head. 

“Well,” Samson continued, “why don’t you go on over there to my cabinet, second from the right. It _sticks_, so, jiggle the handle a little—Pick a color.” 

He glanced at Troy, some giddiness in his expression, before dipping his head and crossing the garage. Troy leaned again, admittedly curious, as Nacho got the door open and crouched in front of the shelves. 

Turning around cans, some dented, others with long-worn labels, smears of test colors on the lids, he chewed his lip. Amid paint sticks and folded tack cloth, he eventually found one—taking it, and standing. As he studied it, he smiled to himself, glint of orneriness in his eyes. Shutting the cabinet again, he went to turn, but stopped short. 

Fixated on a Polaroid photo, he peeled away the masking tape, looking at it a long while. Eventually, he turned back to Samson. 

“Ah—whatcha’ got for me?” The mechanic asked. Nacho closed their distance, handing the can over, but holding up the photo. 

Samson squinted at it a mere moment, before a baffled laugh escaped his lips, “_Oh, _goin’ _bold_, ain’t we? I _like it._ _Definitely_ can make _that_ work.” 

Nodding, he smiled, and Samson laughed again. “You got good taste, kid, I will _give you that._” He took the photo, appearing wistful, before nodding to himself. “Yeah...What a pair these two will make at the track. Hey, Troy—check it out,” he held up the can, giving it a little shake, as Troy leaned to see. “He’s wanting a _pearlescent_, and a _chameleon _at that. _Purple-orange-gold_. Gonna’ be a regular _sunset_ across that pretty thing—now ain’t _that_ a vision, huh?” He tapped Nacho on the arm, “Kid’s bustin’ out my _custom pigments_.” 

Troy allowed himself a quiet smile, finishing his cigarette and extinguishing it on his shoe. 

“You know, this ain’t _cheap,” _he raised his brows at Nacho, as he listened. “And there’s no way it's getting done on a weekend; I’m gonna’ need some time to get my materials in. In the meantime, I’ll patch it up. By the end of the summer, I’ll be able to paint it like you want, OK? You mind waiting?” 

He shook his head, and Samson nodded, glancing again at the photo nostalgically. Walking back over, he re-taped it to the cabinet, tapping two fingers on it. 

*** 

Troy sat against the cool stone of the building, helmet beside him, down to his last few cigarettes. Smoking this one a bit _slower_, he watched the hot day take over and toss the leaves of skirting trees. They glimmered and rustled in their own way—supposedly the full bloom of spring, ushering in what would be another summer of heat and flooding. 

_The weather got worse every year in Stilwater. _

Eventually, at that rate, there wouldn’t _be _a Stilwater. 

He sneered—_what a tragedy. _

Nacho rounded the corner, approaching him, some eagerness in his step. 

“_Está listo_,” he smiled, gesturing over his shoulder with a pointed thumb. 

“Yeah?” Troy tilted his head, squinting up at him. “That sounded _good, _so, I’m guessin’ my car’s done.”

“Sí.” Exhaling, Troy pressed his back to the wall, as Nacho eased to sit beside him, minding his leg. “He’s fast.” 

“Uh-huh,” Troy murmured. “Beats the _you-know-where_.” 

“¿_Mande_?” 

He turned to look at him, making circles with his hand, “The—_y’know_, that _other _car place?” 

“...Um,” his eyes darted to the neighboring building, before finding him again. 

“I _hate sayin’ it,” _Troy sighed, “it’s the one everybody goes to. Billboards everywhere, on the radio...?” 

“You mean _Rim Jobs?_” Nacho squinted, talking a bit louder than Troy’s hushed tone, making him fidget.

“Yes, that.” 

“Why you no like sayin’ it?” 

“_Because, _man,” Troy waved again, cringing. “It’s—ah, _fuck it_, just forget about it.” 

“They _bad, er_…?” 

“Look, _never mind,” _he leaned back into the cool stone, taking a long drag of his cigarette, shaking his head to himself. “Anyway...guess that’s everything, then.” 

“Guess so...it’s a lot of fun, promise.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Troy drummed his fingers on the pavement, opting to finish his cigarette a little quicker than he wanted to, after all. “I’m still _workin’_ here, though—and _you are_, too. This is Saints business, _a’ite_, not just fun and games.” 

“...and cash,” Nacho shrugged. 

Exhaling a tight stream, he raised an eyebrow, arms resting on his knees. 

“...I take it youse talked about that whole, uh—_job thing_?” 

“Sí,” he replied.

“...You cool with jumping into all that? You don’t _have to_, right now. I know you’re all _eager and shit, _but it’s been _one day_.” 

“Need the money,” he peered at him thoughtfully, dark eyes honest. “Seein’ as I got fired.” 

“..._really_? How’d uh...how’d that happen?” 

“Got hurt.” A solid pat on his thigh, just above the wound. 

Troy’s stomach sank, but he kept his composure, allowing his head to lull back a bit, eyes turned to the sky. 

“...That’s why you came by the church yesterday,” he sighed—_flatly_, but softly. “_Ain’t it?_” 

“I guess,” he tilted his hands, before resting them in his lap again. “One reason.” 

“You’ve been on the street all this time _while_ holdin’ down a job_?” _

“Happens a lot.” 

“...They can’t fire you for that,” He muttered quietly, eventually, shaking his head and closing his eyes. 

“It was under the table. I couldn’t work, so they get someone else.” 

“What kind of _piece of shit—?”_

The sudden roar of his _Vegas’ _engine startled Nacho, him turning abruptly while Troy sat upright. 

It gleamed, purple and flawless, as Samson backed it into the lot. Nacho stood, Troy extinguishing his cigarette on the brick, tucking the remainder into the pack. Their mechanic gave a thumbs-up from the driver’s side, extended out into view, barely visible behind tinted glass. 

“She’s all good to go!” he called over the engine, Troy carrying the helmet under his arm and crossing the lot. Coming to the driver’s side, Samson held the door open with his knee, pumping the gas, the engine revving in response. “_Hoo-boy_,” he smiled, as the engine rumbled down, looking up at him. “Music. I’d say you kids are all set.” 

“Thanks, man.” Troy told him, “_Really_. The _Bootlegger_, too.” 

Samson stood, and they shook hands, a brief hug and a couple pats to follow, before Troy took his place in the driver’s seat. 

He waved for Nacho, and the younger man approached the passenger door, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, and a radiant orange and black helmet under his arm. 

“I’ll call ya’,” Samson yelled over the engine to Nacho as he climbed in, holding up his thumb and index to his ear, “should be done Sunday!” 

Nacho smiled and nodded as he shut his door, Troy propping his arm out the window, raising a few fingers in goodbye. 

Arriving back in Mission Beach, Troy’s green house came into view, the waves of the Lake rolling against a shoreline of sparkling sand, _and the occasional broken bottle_. The blonde looked at his passenger as he killed the ignition, working his house key out from the cluttered, jiggling ring. 

“Can you wait here a sec?” He asked, “I’ll only be a minute.” 

Nacho nodded, reclining in his seat, helmet in his lap. 

Troy opened his door and quickly made his way to his house, taking his chipped cement steps two at a time. 

Nacho leaned on the window frame, watching people pass, the afternoon sun and shade relaxing in a way that made his lids heavy. Eventually, he heard a door close, and glancing up, he noticed Troy crossing the lot again, a black leather jacket looped over his arm. 

Climbing back into the car, he draped his jacket over the seat, wet hair combed back, now wearing fitted jeans and high-tops laced tight to his ankles. He situated the shepard revolver, holstered in a gun clip on his belt, pulling the hem of his dark purple T-shirt down to cover it. 

“Here,” he said, tossing him a folded shirt.

Nacho turned it over in his hands as the other slammed his door, putting the key in the ignition again. 

“¿Por qué me das esto?” 

“Colors, man.” he commented, noting the other’s earth-toned getup of cargo pants and workboots, the most blaring his rust-tinted muscle shirt. _Matched his car. _“Can’t be doin’ all that.” 

“These’s all I have,” Nacho said, quietly, looking over at him. 

“Yeah, but, _orange.” _

“It’s my _favorite color.” _

“It’d help with the_ theming _here if we both _flew colors_, our colors.” Troy insisted, gesturing between the two of them, before turning the key. As the engine roared, “Saints wear _purple. _Last time I checked this was a _Saints thing_, not a_ social call,_ so...try that, and, ditch the _pañuelo,_ huh?_” _

Nacho raised an eyebrow at him as he turned the _Vegas _from the lot, starting down the street toward 295. Eventually, he smirked, pulling the orange bandana from his head, leaving his shiny black hair full of static. Smoothing it out, he exhaled, somewhat grumpily, eyes settling on the shirt in his lap. 

“Flannel,” he observed, mood improving slightly while he unfolded it, slipping his arms into the oversized sleeves. It was far too long on him, and a bit snug across the shoulders. “...Might not get this back.”

“Hey—_no_, I _love that shirt_,” Troy snipped pointedly, shifting into second gear as he neared the on-ramp. Nacho hid his snickering face in the drape of his hair. “Don’t _funk it up_, neither, asshole. Next time buy your own damn shit.” 

“I lend my helmet,” Nacho bargained, “call it _even_, eh?” 

Shooting him a look, he merged, shifting again and accelerating—engine roaring cleanly. “Yeah, yeah fine,” He said eventually, clicking his tongue. “Will what I got work?”

“Your clothes?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded, the wind from the open windows gaining volume. 

“Sí, for now.” Nacho spoke a bit louder, “eventually they gonna’ want you fireproofed, though.” 

“Fires a uh, _common thing?_” 

He shrugged, “lot of _leakers_ in Stilwater. Never know.” 

“Yeah, that’s...real _comforting_,” Troy remarked, “Is there an admissions fee at this place?” 

“Not the first time, no. Next time, it will cost to enter.” 

“_Next time,_” Troy repeated, accelerating to weave around another car, “What makes you think there’s gonna’ be a _next time, _huh_?” _

“It’s like _chips_.” Nacho snorted, “Once you’ve done it, you’ll be back. There are three events this summer, this one bein’ the preliminaries for the _World Dragon Tour.” _

_Huh. Well, that sounds badass. _

Troy glanced at him, before checking the mirror. “...You plannin’ to enter?” 

“If my car’s in good shape. You will learn in no-time tonight, and will wanna’ go, too.” 

“_Ha—yeah_...hey, just _curious,_” he challenged, raising an eyebrow as he relaxed his grip on the wheel. “What makes you think I ain’t never done this before, huh?” 

Nacho beamed—flashing the gap in his white smile. “I knew it,” he professed, inching forward in his seat. “Ain’t_ nobody _notice what you do.”

Troy smiled in return, albeit reserved, as he tapped his fingers on the shifter. “Will they let ya’ ride shotgun?” 

“You want me to?” 

He shrugged. “Figured you didn’t want to spend the night_ benched, _or stuck in the pits. ‘Sup to you.” 

“It ain’t allowed if your car’s too fast,” Nacho shook his head, relaxing in his seat again, the wind tossing his hair. “But, it shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“You in like that, huh?” 

“I know some people.” 

“Ah—‘kay,” Troy lifted his chin, spotting a road sign, and switching lanes to align with the desired exit. “What time’s this all start, anyhow?”

“6:00.” Nacho nodded, “¿_Qué hora es_?” 

Troy took his right hand off the shifter, bringing his wrist into view. “...4:00,” Nacho said after a moment, tilting his head to read his watch. “Should be enough time.” 

“Explains this _fuckin’ traffic,” _Troy groaned, a caravan of raggedy trucks ahead, and a tractor trailer bumbling along in the lane beside them. “All this fuckin’ road and he’s gotta’ drag his ass in the passin’ lane,” he raised his fingers off the wheel slightly, in gesture. “Nobody can fuckin’ drive in Stilwater, it’s a _scientific phenomenon_ that every _shit driver_ in the country ended up _here._” 

Nacho _snickered,_ evoking an accusatory nod from him, “Hey—you can’t fuckin’ drive _neither_, man, this _applies to you, too—you_ are _included, _a’ite?”Troy shook his head, annoyed. “Hopefully they can go in a _straight line _at the track._” _

“...Could go around em’,” Nacho suggested, a little deviously. 

“I’d have to tap 100, easy.” 

“¿_Y_?” 

“You wanna’ go to jail?” He glanced at the rearview mirror. “A cop back a couple hundred feet, and my engine’s loud. Both packin’ heat, here.” 

Nacho smirked, “only if they catch us.” 

“That your mantra, huh?” 

“You _know _they can’t.” 

Troy pressed his back to his seat, drumming his fingers on the shifter, eyes finding the gauges. 

_Engine’s getting hot. _

“This’s some _peer pressure shit, _right here.” 

“_A warm-up,” _he goaded, nudging his arm. Troy raised an eyebrow at him, “Show off a little—_un poco_, c’mon.” 

_“_No_.”_

_“_Unpo_quito.” _

_“_Nacho—_“ _

_“Un poquitito_,” he prodded, quietly, grinning all the while.

Troy watched the road, _jammed_, avoiding his gaze—although he knew the other still had that _dumb look on his face_. 

“...a’ite, _fine._” He relented, finally, with a sigh. Leaning forward, he glanced at the mirrors again. “Buckle up.” 

Nacho exhaled as he pulled the belt over his chest, enthusiastically—_brand new. _Troy muttered to himself, checking his left, spotting an opening.

He shifted, accelerating, the car jetting forward with a bellowing engine, sudden, strong torque pushing Nacho back in his seat while he reached for the doorframe. Troy weaved the car around the others, horns blaring, evoking a thrilled cheer from his passenger. He shifted again, car darting between the lanes, past the trucks, engine booming. 

“¡Ah, _chingón!” _Nacho laughed, freckled face aglow in excitement, as Troy exhaled and downshifted. Sure enough, distant blue and red lights flashed in the mirror, catching his eye.

“Ha—yeah, there we go.” Troy clicked his tongue, shifting again.

_Those cruisers were a joke. _

“_¡Ándale_ vato, _go_!” Nacho ushered, checking the rearview and tucking his arm back in. Troy accelerated again, concentrating as he dodged denser traffic, passing a tractor trailer. Nacho tucked his chin close to his chest, blasted in chaotic wind, hair whipping his face as he cackled. 

Next came the unmistakable shrill siren as the patrol floored it in pursuit, the _Vegas_ delivering on Troy’s 100mph promise.

They sped ahead with ease, gleaming in the hot midday sun, racing along a backdrop of bleached asphalt and glittering waves. Clearing other drivers, skirting between lanes, the distance left a considerable _clutter_ in their pursuer’s wake. 

Troy glanced at his mirrors, grip firm but stable on the wheel, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. 

“Happy now?” He called, Nacho laughing in response. The patrol was caught behind a pickup in one lane and the tractor-trailer in the other, neither one of them appearing able, _or very interested in_, moving aside. 

Troy kept right, signs overhead fast approaching. 

“Hang on,” he announced, as he decelerated, downshifting, rounding the exit. The stretch of Highway bent into a hard arc, the force of the turn bringing Nacho to brace his feet, gripping the door frame again. A brief squeal of the tires as they neared the ramp’s end beckoned stares and rubbernecking, Troy clearing a yellow light at the intersection—_leaving a traffic-dense red for good measure. _

Slowing down quickly but smoothly, his arm snapped out instinctively in front of his passenger’s chest, before returning to the shifter as he made another turn. 

“Yeah, think we smoked him,” Troy yelled over the engine, head turning to check his mirrors and the street signs. The heart of the arena district bustled as they neared the road Nacho brought them to the day before. With Mt. Clafflin growing closer on the horizon, he noticed trucks pulling car trailers and other vehicles lining up near the woods, on a separate gravel road. “That it, there?” 

Nacho nodded, chuckling still, hands working to part his tousled hair into a semblance of neatness. Glancing up, thick strands tangled in his eyes, “It goes on a ways, just follow ‘em.” 

“Ah—a’ite,” Troy turned, car ambling slower, bumpy transition from pavement to dirt jostling them. The tires crunched gravel, clouds of dust from trucks up ahead. “_Fuck_, man, if a _fuckin’ rock_ goes through my windshield I _will fuckin’ shoot somebody.” _

“For real, though?” Nacho asked, raspy and with a bright smile, finally managing to tuck his hair behind his ears again. 

“Yes—_dead serious, _a’ite—this track needs a paved road.” 

“It turn to dirt up here,” Nacho said as he unhooked his seatbelt. “The highway broke off into water, so, this is how they connect it through the forest.” 

“Kinda’ hidden out here, ain’t it?” He commented, as Stilwater’s buildings seemed to fade out in the surrounding trees, with only winding dirt road ahead. The trucks in front were his only indication he was going the right way. 

“You scared?” Nacho asked, teasing. 

“I survived your _hiking trip _yesterday, so, I think I’ll make it.” 

“Can still go up there, if you want. I hear there’s a _specter _in the _pond—_”

“Don’t be tellin’ me _all that shit_, man.” 

“_City-slicker.” _

“Fuckin’_-A_,” he scoffed, proudly. “Also known as ‘_common sense,’ _and ‘_the will to live.’” _

After about ten minutes, they followed the bottommost curve of the mountain, through shrubbery and trees, before it tapered off into rolling fields of wheatgrass, bromes, and coneflowers—dotted with storm-worn, dilapidated sheds. 

Pieces of guardrail and bridge posts still stood, slanted, out of the dark encroaching waters of the Lake. 

Troy glanced at the stream running parallel to the road, carved into the flood lands, chunks of concrete long retaken by the clay. It snaked through the field, until it met the mouth of a sloped mountain cliff—a waterfall sloshing spring water from the aforementioned pond. 

“...Fuckin’ _waterfall_,” he commented, a little surprised, as he craned his neck, “_Damn_.” 

“Kinda’ _pretty, _eh? La _cascada,” _Nacho informed. 

“_Cascada_.” He repeated, murmuring, turning his attention back to the road. 

The afternoon sun shone overhead—hot and bright, but cast the sky in an open, cloudless blue haze, prompting him to flip down the sun visor to shield his eyes. The bleachers of the track came into view, trimming along the ¼ mile stretch of road. Already they were filled with people, even more set up in lawn chairs and tailgating along the outer reaches. 

Troy exhaled through his nose as they neared the entrance, stuck behind an assembly of vehicles, a simple chain link fence and shed-like structure acting as a ticket booth. _Didn’t skimp on the bulletproof glass, though. _

Already, he could hear the booming of music, and the indistinct voice over an intercom, drowned in roaring engines and skidding tires. The smell of burning rubber and grilled food lingered, even from that distance, accented by a strangely damp, earthy undertone from the surrounding Lake. 

He fidgeted in his seat as he waited for the truck in front to make it through the gate, before a young man in a red and white sporty shirt and ball cap came into view. He held up a hand for him to stop, and pulling up, Troy leaned an arm on the window. 

“Drivin’ or watchin’?” The young man called with a nod, pen and clipboard in hand, Troy raising his chin in response. 

“Driving,” he answered, the young man dipping to see inside the car, appearing confused—Troy matching his expression—before he spotted Nacho. 

“¡_Oye, _Nacho_!” _He exclaimed, “¡Quiúbole _güey_! Thought I saw you there._” _He approached the car and propped an arm on the roof, leaning down to speak through the open window. “¿Dónde está tu carro? Sé que _no es tuyo_,” he chuckled. 

“En el taller,” he replied, in a tone a bit clearer than Troy was expecting. “Volveré la semana proxima.” 

_Mostly preoccupied with this guy’s armpit helping itself into his personal space, though. _

“Ah, OK—¿Quién es el gringo?” 

“Mi compa,” he replied. 

“¿Irás a correr esta noche? 

“Él es, estoy en el asiento del copiloto.” Troy let his eyes settle on the steering wheel, effectively _lost, _before Nacho tapped his shoulder. “Troy, this is Enrique, his father owns the track.” 

“Oh,” he said, a little awkward, peering up at his tanned, friendly face. “‘Sup, man.” 

“_Hey_,” he greeted, cheerfully, before glancing down at his clipboard, “Oh, right, here’s your thing.” He reached into his shirt pocket, handing a small card over. “What’s the make on this?” 

“‘70 _Vegas,” _he replied. 

“For _Cuāuhtli_,or…?” 

“..._huh_?” Troy glanced at Nacho as he leaned forward again. 

“Sí, sólo escriba eso.” 

“OK,” Enrique said, making note, before pointing with the pen. “Pull up there, make a right to _inspection_, OK? Fill that out and pop the hood. Nacho’ll show you. And uh—good luck, out there. Be _careful_ too, yeah?” 

Troy nodded, politely, as Nacho waved again. 

He pulled forward, handing Nacho the card, turning as directed, following a dirt path toward a paved lot. Behind were two expansive garages, full of cars of every make in sectioned-off quadrants, packed with people. 

“What’d he write?” Troy asked. 

“My name,” He replied, glancing through the windshield to the garages. “Last name.” 

“_Oh_—Sorry, I...It didn’t even sound _Spanish_, to me, I didn’t—” 

“‘Cuz it’s _not_,” he snorted, “you got a pen?” 

“Uh..._maybe_, check the glovebox.” 

Several men approached them, clad in jumpsuits, signaling for him to turn the car off. He did so, stepping out, another handshake to follow while they explained the procedures. Troy nodded along, while Nacho retrieved a ballpoint, filling out the card. 

As Troy worked his arms into his jacket, adjusting the collar, his eyes drifted—overhearing hoots from the pits, wayward stares from clustered people settling on his car, and _him_. 

Squinting, _he noticed something_, before turning his back to them nonchalantly, the technicians opening the hood. 

“...Nacho,” he called, quietly, scratching the back of his head. The younger man looked up from the open trunk, a technician checking over the slicks. He nodded at him, before Troy closed their distance, taking him by the shoulder and leading him aside. 

“I get the sense you ain’t tellin’ me somethin’,” he began, pointedly, flicking his eyes at the other. 

“Um…?” 

“Like how we won the lottery on _Carnales_ here—_are you fucking crazy?” _

_“_I told you—”

“_No_, you said—! _Nevermind_,” he breathed, letting go of him. Running a hand through his half-dried hair, “Do they have pull on this track?” 

“No, Enrique’s father’s not in the gang. A separate organization from out-of-town actually runs the races, he just owns the track.” 

“Are they partnered? Pops and the boys in red?” Troy asked, glancing around as he reached for a cigarette. 

“_Probably_—but I highly doubt _willingly_. Hard-pressed to find a business in Stilwater not squeezed by one of the three, especially where betting’s involved.” 

“A’ite—fine, look, here’s what we’re gonna’ do. We’re gonna’ race, _kick some ass_, and we ain’t gonna’ get _separated_. We take turns on the dial-in runs, OK?”

“Wh—_really? _You don’t mind me driving?” 

“Nah,” Troy said, as he sparked his cheap lighter, “as long as there’s no _garbage cans_ around, I’d say we’re safe. I take it RollerZ will show?” 

“Definitely,” Nacho nodded. “Since they drive the imports, those usually are grouped together for the staging lanes—which run after our kind of cars. Nitro is after dark. They ain’t here yet.” 

“A’ite,” Troy nodded, puffing on his cigarette. Just as he turned, one of the technicians approached. 

“Car looks good,” he said, ripping a piece of carbon paper from the clipboard, and handing it to Troy, along with his keys. Pointing, and speaking loudly in a clear drawl over the noise, “G’head over there to driver registration, need a valid state driver’s license, then you can pick a spot in the pits, alright?” 

“Yeah—thanks.” 

“Alright; have fun, stay safe.”

Another tech closed the hood, Troy raising his eyebrows at Nacho—him smiling in return. 

They walked the few feet to the booth, Troy presenting his license—_a little nervous, but, SPD came through_—and filling out all the liability paperwork. 

_‘If I end up a flaming ball of crunched steel, Diaulos Raceway is in no way responsible’—he_ smirked. 

Troy took his run-card and neon paper wristband, handing Nacho his, before his window was marked in white shoe polish. 

Peeling away the sticky paper, Troy gave Nacho the keys. 

“Go find us a spot,” he said, as he exhaled smoke, managing to fasten the band around his wrist. “I’ve gotta’ make a phone call real quick.” 

Nacho nodded, taking them, smirking. Troy watched as he climbed in the _Vegas, _adjusting the seat—_ha, short—_before starting it up. The roar of the engine prompted more onlookers from the pit, impressed, but _clearly sizing them up._

Troy stuffed one hand in his pocket—_near the revolver—_taking his phone out with the other one. Flipping it open, he dialed, pressing it close to his cheek to hear. 

After methodical ringing, it eventually picked up, Troy hanging his head as he smoked. 

“_Hey, man, you’ll never guess who I just saw.” _

“_...Oh?” _Julius replied, voice mellow, yet intrigued. 

“_Yeah..._whattaya want me to do?” His eyes never left Nacho and his car, now backing into a space in the crowded garage. 

“_Take care of it,”_ Julius said after a pause. “_Get all you can, son—but don’t pull any punches. We mean business.” _

“A’ite,” he replied, gravely, but maintained a casual demeanor. “Any news on _Athos_?” 

“_Working on it. You worry about your own shit, and I’ll worry about mine.” _

“Fair enough. I’ll call ya’.” 

Troy took the phone away, gaze lingering on the screen as the line disconnected. Flicking the cigarette nub, exhaling his last puff, he turned toward the pits with focused eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a reminder that Troy's "Vegas" --wink, wink-- Is a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. I LOVE this car, especially the "in-violet/Crazy Plum" color. I apologize also if there are any errors in my Spanish, or if it comes off as stilted, or too textbook. I am doing my best and still learning! 
> 
> Diaulos is a foot race from Ancient Greece, of comparable length to the 1/4 mile dragstrip. I chose this to keep in the spirit of Greek names for other locations in Stilwater. 
> 
> Enrique is the unnamed, charming NPC that gives the Carnales race mission in SR1, (the guy with the sexy magazine) and Samson is mentioned in SR2 as a bomb technician. I made him the same guy that rigs the bombs on cars in SR1 for main missions. Samson's shop is the same shop Troy, Dex, and the Playa speak in after stealing the truck. 
> 
> I grew up in bodyshops and have been to the dragstrip a lot when I was little so, for better or worse it's a unique experience I thought fit well in OG Stilwater.


	8. Old Friends Die Hard

His breath was hot on the chin guard, helmet muffling the fans and rhythmic rumbling of the engine as he drove through the lot, waved on by men in neon T-shirts, approaching the waterbox. Another sprayed the pavement with a pressure washer just as the racer ahead of him pulled up to the starting line. 

His time run was good—consistent, and thus began the first qualifying round for _‘Nostalgia Supercars’ _class, in which muscle cars of similar year and builds were grouped. He’d never raced in a so-called _three-round _format; this performance would determine his place in elimination. 

_An “up-here” thing. _

The track stretched ahead, ¼ a mile, people filling the grass and bleachers on either side—seated on blankets and lawn chairs, concrete barricades all that separated them from the asphalt. Troy took the left lane, fifteen feet across, concrete divider draped in tarps carrying ads and sponsors. The cascading flashes of the _Christmas Tree_ light dotted down, before the car ahead roared, jetting off, much to the screaming and cheers of the crowd, joined by a sneaking opponent in the right lane. Troy ignored them, as he breathed again, tapping the brakes as he was ushered into the waterbox. 

“_You gonna’ burn-out?_” Nacho called, strapped into his seat, dark eyes thin crescents from beneath his visor. Troy glanced at him, eyes revealing a smirk as well, before he turned his attention to the ref ahead, standing in the center island. Hand raised in waiting—a _Hammerhead_ of similar year joined him in the lane to his right, blazed in decals. Troy flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, right hand gripping the shifter, feeling the grooves in both. 

The ref gave the signal, and Troy floored the gas, spinning squealing tires in place—the acrid smell of burning rubber immediately filling the air, engine singing. The _Vegas_ slid slightly, but he countered it, turning the wheel against its bucks, keeping the car straightened. Smoke plumed around them, before the car jolted forward through the light beam, him working the shifter, braking. 

Nacho’s cheer could be heard, muffled, as Troy’s eyes settled on the lights, the top row of seven total illuminating as the other car joined him. 

“_A’ite, _round 1, man_!_” Troy hollered over the noise, voice drowned, waiting for the smoke to dissipate. “_9.5_ on the dot—might pop a wheelie!” 

Nacho laughed in response—_more thrilled than concerned. _Troy shook his head lightly, to himself. He watched the road, and distant overhead displays clearing in preparation for his time—pink bloom of sunset bleeding over the horizon. 

Waved ahead, he exhaled, crossing the next beam—activating the bottom bulbs, lit up in yellow. 

Staged in, Troy watched the lights, concentrating. 

_Ready, and…! _

Three bulbs cascaded in amber, the fourth blaring green. Troy floored the gas, car roaring, front end lifting slightly as the car came to full life before touching back down. The engine rose—shifting, falling again, deafening—speeding down the track, smoking the first speed trap. The _Hammerhead _crept alongside, both inching forward as they piqued top speeds. Troy kept his hand steady, knuckles white, before the purple _Vegas_ shot by the finish line—sun glaring on the tinted windshield, gauges wildly spiking. 

Both cars immediately decelerated, G-forces forcing Troy to finally _exhale, _beginning the long, gradual slowing. Nacho laughed—his voice lighting up the cab, as the seatbelt straps dug into their chests. 

“You did _9.560_, vato!” Nacho yelled, ecstatic, looking back at the electronic signs, “_130.29mph_!” 

“_Ha_—a’ite!” He exclaimed, eyes creasing as they sped along, keeping left. Catching his breath, _heart pounding, admittedly, _he yelled over the engine: “I knew this thing was fast, but, _damn!” _

“Samson will be proud,” Nacho added, as he eased back into his seat, gripping the seatbelt. 

“Yeah, I’ll have to show him the time slips—at this rate I’m gonna’ owe him _a lot _of beer.” 

“He should come next time.” 

“Yeah, we’ll have to talk him out here,” Troy nodded, eyes flicking at the road and concrete barricades skirting the water. 

_Lin, too, but she hasn’t been around lately. _

Turning, they neared the ticket box, Troy rolling down his window as he retrieved it. Handing it to Nacho, he rounded the curb, starting the drive back to the pits—people staring and clapping as they passed. The purple _Vegas _gleamed in warm light, sun steadily sinking behind far-off mountains, water sparkling against the bank.

_If nothing else, it was pretty to look at—_passerby children and adults alike pointing. 

Nacho’s promised _fleur-de-lis_ in white shoe polish on the window sure drew its own attention, _for better or worse. _

“I usually enter the 10.00 index class with my _Bootlegger_,” Nacho told him, “maybe we could do that one in a couple weeks.” 

“Yeah?” Troy glanced at him, “What’s the payout?” 

“$5000.” 

“That’s a lot of cash just drivin’ fast cars around,” Troy said, as he slowed. _And nobody had to die for it._ “A’ite—_we’ll see_, no promises.” 

Nacho smirked quietly, as he was loosening the strap under his helmet. 

After an hour for turnaround, the track filled with people—dozens of entries and hundreds of spectators, all crowded into the sidelines with grills, glow sticks, and mosquito candles. Troy found himself leaning against his Vegas, night falling, hood open to cool the engine. He watched competitors speed past, lost in the sheer force of wind tossing his hair and clothes, smoking in reserved silence. Nacho sat on the pavement, head against the tire, having just checked its pressure. 

Troy scanned the electronic signs, searching for a reaction time and finish speed as _close to 9.5 seconds as his was. _

It was a long-shot, some of Stilwater’s cars were _monsters_, but he trusted Samson’s handiwork. 

“It’s gettin’ chillier out here,” Troy said, exhaling smoke, glancing down at him. “That means it’s gonna’ handle better and go faster. You ready for that?” 

“My Bootlegger takes off quicker,” he explained. “This one go faster overall, but my reaction time is…” he clicked his tongue against his teeth, tilting his head. 

“_Oh-ho_, ‘zat so?” Troy smirked, cigarette bobbing with his words. “Yeah, _well_, we’ll see. Might not even make it to elimination.” 

“The consolation rounds are still fun; you don’t make as much, but it’s something.” He shrugged, “pay for the gas and a burger, at least.” 

Troy snorted, taking another drag of his cigarette, head rolling back to peer at the spotlights, stars dotting the night sky just beyond the hazy glow. 

He blew a lazy smoke ring into the night air, just as the crackling of the PA system rang out. 

_“Attention NSC class racers: we’d like to congratulate cars 23, 76, 88, and 104 for their best performance scores in the qualifying round in the 9.5 index. Please report to staging for pairing and elimination round!” _

Troy’s jaw fell open a bit, as Nacho erupted into a cheer, throwing his fists above his head, the crowd joining his energy as disjointed voices and clapping could be heard, echoing out and scattered over the track. 

“...Well_, shit,” _Troy barely murmured, baffled, _the realization setting in_. Nacho was on his feet, hobbling on his bad leg, pulling the helmet down over his inky bob, tucking it haphazardly behind his ears beneath the edges. 

“That’s $500 for making it to elimination, but I know we can go further. ¡_Apúrate_ güero—!“ he nudged him, hurriedly, opening the driver’s door, “—get _ready_, we have to go!” 

Troy quickly dropped the cigarette, extinguishing it with his boot as he whirled around, working the hood and lowering it with a clean _thump. _He exhaled, heart beating a bit harder as he opened the passenger door.

Sitting down, he quickly pulled the helmet over his messy hair, “it’s up to you—you gotta’ _nail it_.” 

“I got this,” Nacho said, confidently, as he strapped himself in. Slamming his door, he turned the key, the _Vegas _bellowing. 

Nacho swung the car around past the pits, dodging crowds of people, throngs of them still arriving and clamoring for the sideline seats. Troy’s eyes darted from one face to the next, before Nacho brought the car just shy of the waterbox. 

Ahead of them was 104 and 88, an old candy red _Gunslinger_, of all things, and another _Hammerhead. _Troy watched as they burned out, tires squealing, much more fanfare with the addition of more people _and considerably more alcohol. _

They shot forward, engines rumbling as they triggered the first light beams, activating the lights. 

“One of these will be our opponent if we win,” Troy yelled over the noise, smoke pooling around them. “Which one you think, huh?” 

“The ‘_56 Gunslinger,” _Nacho replied, “I seen that guy around, car’s no joke. He’s popular.” 

“You go up against him before?”

“_Yea_, never beat him.” 

“He _LC_?” 

“What_chu’ think_?” Nacho replied, sarcastically. “We smoke him, that’ll get people talkin’.” 

“A’ite,” Troy turned his head, seeing 23–_their opponent._ This one was a gold and red lowrider 64’ _Caballero, _the driver leaned out the window and talking to a woman with a video camera, and a little boy trying to pull himself up the door. “Make it count, man.” 

“I plan on it.” 

The cars triggered their second light beams, staged in simultaneously. The ref moved, backing up along the divider, as the drivers watched the lights. In rapid order, the bulbs lit up—_three ambers and a green. _Their tires spun, launching forward, speeding down the track. Troy watched, eyes darting to the signs—_the Gunslinger’s reaction time was ridiculously quick. _The roar of their engines crackled on the horizon, crowd cheering and clapping, shrill outcries over the obvious winner.

“..._Christ_,” Troy expressed, loudly, “you weren’t kiddin’.” 

Nacho said nothing as he was waved forward into the waterbox. He shifted, eyes finding the gauges—no doubt noting the cooler temperature. 

Troy bounced his knee, a little _jittery, _eyes ahead on the track. 

Given the signal, Nacho planted the pedal, spinning the tires in place with a sudden spike, squealing and smoke kicking up immediately. It was quite the spectacle, attracting claps and _hooting, _before he let off—car popping forward past the first beam. 

“Damn, man!” Troy exclaimed, “Beatin’ the shit out of my car!” 

“Tires need to be hot! That’s what they for!” He yelled back over the engine, “_¡Cállate!_—I need to focus!” 

Troy scoffed, grinning a little as he held onto the seatbelt straps over his chest, glancing at their opponent. He appeared ready, as they both were ushered onward. Nacho drove up seven more inches, activating the second beam—bottom bulbs glowing. 

Troy spent the next seconds in more trepidation than Nacho, unblinking fixation on the light tower, before _green blared_. Before he could even _process green, _the engine was roaring in his ears, Vegas shooting forward. The sudden, unexpected speed pushed his back to the seat, listening as Nacho shifted, pushing _the engine hard. _Troy could barely suck in a breath as he watched their opponent, having crept ahead, lagging behind as he shifted again—speeding past the midpoint, before clearing the finish line. 

Their red tail lights lit up as two dots on the horizon, Troy immediately turning—their signpost _blinking green_. 

With raised brows, astonished—“You _won_, man!” 

“_¡Orale!” _Nacho laughed, as he slapped his palm down on the shifter a few times, “that’s $_1000 each _if we make the final—even if we lose. But, I know we can take that $6000!” 

Troy chuckled, gripping the rollbar and seat as they decelerated. 

_Nacho didn’t anticipate the green—he pressed the gas on the third amber._

_Risky. _

“I bet you’ve been disqualified a lot,” Troy commented, “pullin’ that shit.”

The other simply laughed, once, as he steered, “...It was good practice.” 

“Yeah, ya’ did good.” Troy watched as people came into view, Nacho retrieving the time slip, driving back to the long stretches of concrete just before the pits. 

Naturally, the car collected even more stares and questions, Troy keeping his word of dropping hints to the mechanic responsible. It mostly gathered half-drunk feigned interest, but out of the few, there were some curious listeners with a taste for style—the look proved that, and the races were a testament to performance. The driver of the _Caballero _even stopped by, offering his congratulations. 

Over the course of the next hour, Nacho mainly avoided the passerby spectators with polite nods or maintenance on the tires, hood propped open to cool.

Admittedly, his _‘eye-on-the-prize’ _approach was admirable. Troy smoked as he watched him wait, patiently. 

_Half expected him to drink and socialize_, maybe bring that guy at the gate—_what’s his name—_over_, _like anyone else would, but it became increasingly more apparent that he took this seriously. 

Troy raised his eyes to the stars again as they waited for turnaround and their results over the PA system, but some obnoxiously loud revving and catcalling echoed in the distance—a cluster of voices so scattered and overlapping with battling _laughter _and _screaming _that he couldn’t tell if there was a brawl or not. His hand lingered near his hip, as he furrowed his brows.

“Hey—?” He spoke, “what’s all that _racket_, huh?” 

“_RollerZ_ are here,” Nacho replied, less than enthused, “they always like that. I keep my distance, most do. Unlike _Carnales_ they really like to run up on people in packs.” 

“Sounds to me like they need their _asses kicked_.” 

“Believe me, there been scrapes. It get the cops down here, and nobody want that, like I said. So they just act like assholes. They usually only do _head-up_ races though, which don’t start for awhile.” 

“Real classy. I’m sure they go real fast in _mom’s car._” 

Nacho snickered under his breath, as Troy exhaled, plucking his cigarette from his lips and crossing one foot over the other. Folding his arms, and leaning against the door, he squinted ahead— noticing an arched back near a group of people.

_Looked like a heckler. _

Nosy, Troy watched, waiting for him to turn around. It wasn’t long before he saw hands trading. 

_Ah, yeah. _

_Drug deal. _

When the man finally did turn around, he was working the cash into his shirt pocket, nonchalantly starting toward the concessions building near the pits. 

“...Nacho?” 

“Hm?” 

“You uh, you gettin’ hungry? All these _peppers _and _steaks ‘n shit,_ grilling out here, I’m dyin’.” 

He smirked, “Yea’, _un poco_.” 

“How ‘bout I grab us something. You cool waitin’ here?” 

“...Sure, but, I thought you said we shouldn’t separate?” 

“I’ll be five minutes, and I haven’t seen anyone sizing us up out here. Seems the pits are a hangout, y’know.” 

“OK,” Nacho said casually, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Cool. Be back in a minute.” Troy leaned off the car, fixing the collar of his jacket. He started toward the building, before stopping, turning. “If we get called, and I get stuck in line? You go ahead.” 

“_¿Neta?” _

_“Yeah, _kick some _ass, _a’ite?” Nacho nodded, before Troy turned again, gaze hardening. 

It was a fair walk from that distance, but he closed it as quickly as possible without drawing attention. He pushed through the crowd, nonchalantly, hands in his pockets. Looking for a grungy graphic T-shirt and a beanie, he eventually spotted the man, _at it again, _making chat while casually picking at his skin. Mostly, he was ignored, save for the suburban idiot actually _interested_ in whatever he had. 

Troy exhaled, turning away from sight, taking out his phone to _look busy. _As he clicked through the _generic wallpapers that came with the phone, _he glanced from the corner of his eye. 

_Deal done, moving on. _

_“Attention NSC class racers: we’d like to congratulate 104 and 76 on their 9.560 and 9.571 ETs, respectively, in the 9.5 index; please report to staging for elimination rounds!” _

Some people erupted into cheering and sporadic laughter, but the crowd mostly continued to bustle, uninterrupted. 

_Damn, he made it. _

Unable to spare another thought toward the race, though, his eyes returned to the man. He moved now beneath a narrow underpass, open on the other end, two restrooms and a rusted sign nestled into the concrete brickwork. 

_That’ll work._

Following him, looking over his shoulder to ensure _he wasn’t also being tailed_, he started for the restrooms. 

The man opened the door, disappearing inside. After a moment, Troy scoped the hall, several women clustered outside the ladies room with their children, but paying no mind to him. Swinging open the door, he slipped in. 

There he stood, back to the door, Troy’s eyes narrowing. 

_That’s him, alright. _

“How’s it goin’, man?” Troy said, voice echoing in the dingy tiled bathroom, the hydraulics in the door squealing shut with a click. The man at the urinal turned, face contorting in terror, tripping over his own feet as he stumbled back for the the wall, struggling to yank his pants up. A hand fumbled for the window—old, cloudy and rusted, thumb desperately attempting to work the latch in his frantic scrambling. 

Troy blinked, bemused, locking the door and returning his hands to his pockets. His eyes scanned the bottom of the two stalls—_alone, good. _

The _drunk, high, whatever_— man in front of him tried, to no avail, to pull himself up to the window, but his arms wouldn’t lift him. Instead he turned, breath erratic, sunken eyes wide and unfocused. 

“Whattayou—whattayou _want?” _He stammered, pressing his back to the wall, trying to stay upright. 

“How’s life treatin’ ya’?” Troy asked, flatly, eyes never leaving him. 

“Y—you...wait, _what? _No, no no, no,” he crumpled a bit, shaking his head, “don’t _kill me _man, I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know—“ 

“Yeah I _bet_,” Troy spoke over him. “That ain’t why I’m here. I know you’ve been slingin’ in Saints Row.” 

“H—...what?” 

Lifting the hem of his shirt, he showed him the revolver, brows raised in challenge. The man turned his head with a grimace, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“OK—ok ok ok, _let’s talk_, let’s talk about th—hey, _hey_!” He barked suddenly, hand out in front of him as Troy took a step, “We’re _talkin’! _I said I’ll talk!” 

“I got shit to do.” 

“OK, it was—,” he swallowed, adding quickly and in a quieter voice, “It’s just _small shit,_ alright, a little off the top. That’s _it_.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why the fuck are you on _me_ about this? I just did what Flaco said, why not look _him_ up?” 

“Where is our pal anyhow?” 

“Fuck if _I know_—I’m _nobody_, my guys are _nobodies—_“ 

“Got that right.” 

“_Fuck you_, man, I wouldn’t _be in this situation_ if not for—!” 

“..._A’ite_.” Troy’s hand returned to the handle. 

“_Stop—stop!_ _Jesus Christ,” _

_“_You wanna’ try again?” 

“I, uh, OK—OK, look, _whattaya want?_ You want in? Is that it? We deal to maybe a handful of people from the Row—I can cut you in,_10 percent_. That’s _fair_.” 

“I don’t give a fuck about your money.” 

“Then what _the fuck_?” He balked, incredulously, before looking him head to toe. “You partner with VK these days, that it? RollerZ? _Everybody_ wantin’ a piece of the Row, now, but I was _there first—!” _

“Maybe Hector doesn’t appreciate your entrepreneurship,” Troy squinted, bringing the other’s face to go pale. “_Catch my drift?” _

“Oh...oh shit, no—“ he spat suddenly, “no you’re _out, _I _know _you’re fuckin’_out_,” he laughed, “there’s _no way in hell—!_“ 

“Yeah...“ Troy dipped his head, nodding. He pulled the gun, the other throwing out his hands, yelling in repetition as Troy stomped up on him, grabbing him, stabbing the gun to his chest as he slumped, “You _sure _about that_?” _

_“Please, please—“ _

_“_How sure _are you?_” He jabbed. 

“_I’ll give you whatever we got,_ OK, just don’t—don’t fucking _rat us out, _OK—“ 

“Where?” 

“Don’t—don’t, don’t _please_ I’m _fucked up right now, _I’m _sorry_, I didn’t know; I fuckin’ _swear I didn’t know—_“ 

“Hey, no—_shh-shh, _shut _the fuck up_.” Troy spoke over him again, sharply. “Answer the question.” 

“The old liquor store on the coast, OK?” 

“Now you’re _lyin’_ to me?” 

“It’s the truth! Come by—yeah, we’ll _both go,_ right now, OK? Just _put the fuckin’ piece away._” 

He stared at him, a moment, jaw locked and eyes fierce, before his hand lowered. 

_Don’t know where that is—don’t have time to phone in—and a hostage would make this easier. _

“..._A’ite_.” He humored, eventually, releasing him and backing away. The other sank to the ground, flat on his behind. Troy exhaled, peering down at him, before shaking his head. “You hand over all that _rat poison_ you call _product_, and it stays between us. Make a move and you’re _dead,_ you follow?” 

He huffed, nodding, frantic. 

Troy waved the gun from his side in gesture, “get up.” 

As the man on the floor rose, knees shaking, hand out in front of him—_missing a fingernail,_ sudden, repetitive pounding on the door boomed. 

“_Hurry the fuck up in there, some people gotta’ shit!” _

Troy glanced at the door, attention jolting, before the man slammed into him, knocking him to the floor, wrist striking the ground and throwing the gun away. It clattered on the tile as they tangled, a thrashing of limbs, blocking his face from clumsy fists and elbows—his attacker shrieking in panicked, muttered swearing. Troy kicked and kneed, shouts and grunts of surprise before a sudden, sharp burning radiated throughout his core. 

With a final thrust of his knee, he sent the other man tumbling off of him, an ugly _slapping_ on the ceramic—Troy rolling to grab his gun, but a jagged, searing pain forcing the air from his lungs, immediately paralyzing his arm. His assailant stumbled to his feet, kicking the gun away—sending it sliding and spinning to an obscure corner, before he rushed to the window in shambling strides, fingers working the lock, hoisting himself up. 

“_Hey—sonofabitch_!” Troy barked, attempting to sit up, but he _couldn’t—what the fuck—?_

The man was out the window, stumbling into the grass, sprinting as fast as his clumsy gait would carry him. Troy lay on the floor, back to the tile, eyes on the blurring, mildewed ceiling, attempting to catch his breath. Soon, he leaned up again, _swearing_, hissing through his teeth. Confused, every twist of his body was met with intense, throbbing pain. 

_All that from a tackle—? _

His hands parted his jacket, eyes trailing down, before—

_Fuck. _

Immediately upon seeing it, the pain hit him like a truck—_if the truck was on fire. _A shard of glass from a broken bottle was wedged into his lower abdomen, just over the hem of his jeans and piercing his shirt—blood smearing the dark glass. 

“Oh—_oh shit_,” he barely murmured, hands lifting, hovering near it, as it _burned and stung all at once. _He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting down a wave of searing, sharp pain, _noting every centimeter. _His head sunk back as he breathed, concentrating, fists clenching, thumbs rubbing over his fingers. 

_Stupid, that was stupid._

The man behind the door continued to bang on it, growing angrier “_C’mon wrap it up!” _

“Hey, fuck off!” Troy managed to snap, voice cracking, “go shit in _the fuckin’ woods,_ _huh_?” 

The man at the door retorted something else, inaudible, _maybe halfway Spanglish, _but Troy couldn’t bring himself to pay attention—instead he took steady breaths, urging his body to roll, using his arm to prop himself on a hip and turn over. 

“OK, ok,” he huffed to himself, quietly, straining and avoiding looking at it. “Flip—_like a fuckin’ pancake_, Bradshaw—c’mon..._fuck, fuck, fuck!”_

His palms on the tile, he got to his side, panting, a frustrated, agonized grunt to follow, before gently shifting his knee beneath. Pushing himself up, stilted, his hand reached for the stall door to brace against. 

On his knees, he groaned between clenched teeth, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. _Feeling faint—don’t pass out—it _triggered something, the visceral urge to collapse to the floor. It made his limbs weak, his stomach queasy_, _an oddly _sinking_ sensation shooting down his legs and spine, to the tips of his fingers. Instantly, his palms were filmed in sweat_, _fighting down nausea with muffled words. 

“One—_two…_!” 

Left foot planted, tilting, before the other—_solidly on his feet. _

He slowed his breathing in an attempt to keep himself from hyperventilating—counting in his mind, muttered words beneath timed inhales.

_Could be worse. _

Still his eyes found the floor, several droplets of his bright blood staining the tile. 

_No, no, no. _

His fingers raised, wadding the hem of his shirt, pinching the glass and stabilizing it as tenderly as possible without any complementary slicing to his fingers. As he did so, his eyes scanned the sink—_soap dispenser, paper towels are empty...ah—_

Moving gingerly, he picked up the instrument of his _ass-kicking_, a half-broken bottle of tequila. Avoiding stabbing himself further, he splashed it over the tile, pooling with the blood, using the side of his boot to slosh the remaining liquid down the floor drain. 

_Waste of tequila. _

He found his gun, next, lowering, torso straight and bending at the knees to pick it up, returning it to the gun clip. 

_Should’ve just shot him. _

_Less talk, more shoot. _

The banging on the door came again, and Troy turned his head, angrily—“I said _gimme’ a minute_, asshole!” 

“_Troy_?” 

His anger dissolved at Nacho’s voice, swallowing, thoughts scrambling. 

“...Yeah_?” _

_“You OK?” _

“Uh—_yeah, _man,” he turned, thinking quickly, before working the zipper on his jacket, “hang on a sec!” 

“_There a line of people out here, they say there a fight?” _

“No—_no fight_, uh,” he got the zipper up, hand gingerly holding the glass in place through the thick leather. _Almost unnoticeable. _“I’m comin’,” he walked to the door, checking for more blood, before unlocking and opening it. 

Greeted by several men with congratulatory, sarcastic expressions—_even earning some faux applause—_they pushed past him, Troy narrowly dodging the group. Nacho waited off to the side, perplexed, but a hint of worry lingered on his brow. 

“_Woah_...” he expressed in a hushed whisper as Troy approached, “you look _bad_—you motion sick? You could’ve just _said—”_

“Uh—c’mere, a sec,” he ushered him aside, hand on his shoulder. Nacho reached out to stabilize him when he noticed he was leaning, but Troy shirked away. “Don’t—dont _touch me, _OK_, I’m serious—_we got a _bit of a problem._” 

“What? 

“Let’s get to the car, first.” 

“Sure, but—“ 

“Just move,” Troy interrupted, shaking his head, hair poking his eyes _exponentially more annoying. _

They made their way back to the pits, Troy’s _Vegas_ parked and drawing a crowd of onlookers and admirers, nods and smiles, _regular folks it seemed. _

_“_Nice car, guys!” One young man said, a little drunk, a woman with slicked hair hanging on his shoulder. “And _congrats_, that was one hell of a finish!”

“...huh?” Troy lifted his head, but Nacho brought him to the passenger door. 

Opening it for him, he nodded at the crowd. 

Groaning, in a hushed, stifled way, Troy leaned on the car’s roof, gently lowering himself to the seat. Reclining as much as he could, he rolled his lips to subdue another pained noise, knees up against the dashboard, back rolled and slumped down in the seat. “Get in, man—_hurry_, please.” His right hand gripped the rollbar, flexing with every throb of pain. 

Nacho did as he asked, still confused, opening the driver’s door and climbing in. 

Slamming it shut, his eyes scanned Troy’s pale face, beaded in sweat, nose and cheeks reddened and patchy from taking several strikes. His eyes dropped, though, to Troy’s pasty fingers pinching something near his hip.

“What _the—_”

“A’ite, look, _don’t freak out_.” He started, as he was unzipping his jacket. “What I need you to do is drive to the—“ 

“Holy _shit!” _Nacho exclaimed, jolting back in his seat, back of his hand flying to his mouth, “¿_Qué demonios ha pasado—te duele?”_

“Nacho—“

“_—¿Quién lo hizo? ¡Dijiste que permaneciera a tu lado—!”_

“_Nacho,”_ Troy said again, calmly, closing his eyes, “you’re _freakin’ out, _man.” 

“_No_—what the _hell, vato, _you say there was no _fight—!” _

“I _lied_, a’ite, I need you to drive to the hospital.” 

“OK,” Nacho shook his head, before his gaze returned to the shard, wincing, “_damn_, _it just...stuck in there? _Like that?” 

“_Drive_, Nacho, _for the love of fuck_—!” 

He took the keys from his pocket, hurriedly, the engine turning over with a roar. He pumped the gas a moment, before pressing the clutch, working the shifter, and easing out of the pit as quickly as possible. 

Once he cleared the garages, he turned onto the main dirt road again, dodging crowds of people and traffic, glancing at Troy occasionally—headlights two bright beams on the surrounding trees. 

“What _happened_?” 

“Yeah, _that_,” Troy winced, readjusting in his seat as his arm was falling asleep. “...I ran into a _dealer_, bottom-of-the-barrel type situation, guy—he and some other scuzzballs operate out the Row, slingin’ _garbage_, but nonetheless bringin’ that shit onto our turf. I got him to tell me _where_, but they might not be there for _long_, now, since he got away.” 

“Where?” 

“An old liquor store, I guess, near the coast—gotta’ say, I ain’t got a _clue_ where that is.”

Nacho pondered a moment, his mouth forming a line, before he glanced at him, concerned. 

“And he stabbed you?” 

“Yep.” 

“Just like that?” 

“Crackheads ain’t known for their predictability, a’ite.” 

“Why didn’t you cap him?” 

“You want a couple hundred Carnales and RollerZ all shootin’ at each other? One shot rings out, and they all start _shootin’, _like fuckin’ _dominos.” _Troy grunted suddenly, a bit louder, as the car ran over a bump in the uneven road, “_Christ—!” _

“Sorry,” Nacho grimaced, eyes ahead, “what about Juliu—“ 

“No,” Troy interrupted, shaking his head, a dry chuckle to follow. “_No, no. _Old man’ll never let me live it down.” 

“Then, _wha’do we do_?” 

“I haven’t figured that out, yet.” Troy squeezed his eyes shut, bracing as best he could against more bumps, “I’ve been lookin’ for this group awhile. They’re Carnales—_well_,” he corrected, “_sorta’, _the runoff. If we can get rid of ‘em that’ll push that _cheap shit _out, leavin’ us with more opportunity to get a handle on the big-time stuff.” 

“¿_Y_?”

“One thing checked off,” he took a breath. “One step closer to endin’ their drug ring.” 

“They have labs, dealers, all over town.” Nacho said, to which Troy sighed. 

“_Yeah_, I know. But at least it won’t be the Row.” He let his head roll back. “...small victories.” 

“The closest hospital is Ezpata,” Nacho informed, as he sped up, leaning forward to focus, “how you feel?” 

“Well, I’ve been havin’ trouble _sleepin’ _lately_, _and there’s this _rash_—“ 

“OK, I _get it,” _Nacho retorted, glancing at him with narrowed eyes, “I can make you feel better, maybe.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

Digging in his pocket, Nacho retrieved a folded envelope, extending a hand. Troy took it, slowly, _a bit heavy. _

“_Marmaja.” _

“Wha—holy _shit_, man, you _won?” _

Smirking, albeit distracted, Nacho glanced at him, before focusing on the road again. 

Troy opened the envelope, exhaling, six thousand dollars of crisp bills neatly packed. 

“...Yep, you were right,” he replied, wincing, as he let his head fall back again. “Definitely feel better. What margin did you win by?”

“9.5_09\. _He tried to _burn me down_, but it fucked him in the end.” 

“_Damn_…” he murmured. _And I fuckin’ missed it. _“...Good shit, man. Count out your share; I’m gonna’ need mine for the ER.” 

Nacho nodded, hesitantly, leaving it on the seat. After a few more minutes, he neared the end of the dirt road, turning out onto gravel, buildings visible again. Troy blinked, slowly, confusion on his brow, listening to the roar of the engine as Nacho shifted quickly. 

“...am I fucked, or is there glowy, floatin’ shit?” 

“No, it’s um—_luciérnagas_, I don’t know how to say.” 

“_Loose-ear-what?” _

“Bug? _Bicho de luz_?” He tried, as he turned onto the main road, attempting to swing the car as little as possible. “They _butt light up_?” 

“Oh,” he snorted, grinning a little, “_lightnin’ bugs_.” 

“They everywhere in the park at night.” 

His gaze followed them, before he let his lids droop closed. 

_Didn’t expect to see that in Stilwater. _

Locking his jaw, he maneuvered his hand into his back pocket, bringing a cigarette to his lips. 

“Hey_—no_, ni _siquiera lo pienses_.” Nacho snatched the pack from him, prompting Troy’s brows to furrow in pure astonishment. 

“The _fuck—?” _

“Don’t be _stupid,” _Nacho shot back, tossing it on the dashboard. 

“_Excuse me_?”

“You heard me.” 

“It’s my—this is _my_ car!” 

“Get up and get them, then,” he glanced reproachfully at him, “otherwise, tough it out.” 

He sat there, baffled—_annoyed, more at the fact he knew damn well he definitely could not get up and get them. _

_Well, it’s going to be a long night. _

The highway was quiet, only a few blinding headlights on the landscape, night lit up with the familiar glow of streetlights and gas stations. Nacho sped through the streets as quickly as he could _get away with_, passing the pagoda hotels and bridges of Little Shanghai, before nearing the Ezpata district. 

Nacho snuck another glimpse of him, his heart starting to pound. He turned the wheel, Stilwater Memorial Hospital coming into view at the end of the street—_these roads were second-nature_.

“There’s the hospital,” Nacho said, engine revving as he downshifted, eyes catching the train as it sped along on overhead tracks. 

He turned into the lot, decelerating as gently as he could. Stopping in front of the ER, the white light behind a series of automatic doors lit up the blackened, quiet scape, empty ambulances _oddly unnerving_ beneath the streetlights. 

Turning the key, he stuffed the envelope back into his pocket and opened his door to night air. 

Troy pulled the latch, getting his own door open before Nacho was there, helping him to his feet, hooking his one arm around his neck. Troy wobbled, unbalanced, his other hand trembling as it snapped out for the roof. 

“Wh—You _dizzy_?” 

“_Kinda’_,” he answered, a bit startled. A heavy breath followed, vision blurring with cascading lights. _All of the glare was suddenly too much to look at. _“..._Yeah_, not feelin’ too hot.” 

“And you wanted to _smoke_.” 

Troy glared, lightly, as Nacho adjusted his grip on him, holding him upright with one arm and closing the door with the other. 

They started for the building, slowly at first, before the car was out of reach. 

“..._Fuck_, man,” Troy shook his head, trying to clear his sight, legs feeling _more and more like jelly._ “It ain’t lettin’ up.” 

_That sort of thing usually comes and goes. _

“I got you—it’s not far.” 

Letting his head hang, he shut his eyes, the vertigo almost as annoying as the pain. He simply _walked_, one step at a time, lost in that rhythm, that short distance feeling like a marathon. Finally the sliding doors on their tracks filled his ears—a wafting of stale cleaning product, fake plants, and a maxed out AC blasting him. 

His boots scuffed the carpet, feeling like his knees might give, but despite Nacho’s height _he sure was built like a brick shithouse—_holding him up with ease and ushering him along to the reception area. 

The ER was some horrid combination of tile and blue carpet, the walls a sterile beige—magazines from _last century _sprawled out on the table. 

_Vending machine, at least. _

There always seemed to be one sick old man sitting alone in a corner, and a mother with a screaming baby, attempting to wrestle her other children—blissfully unaware, and bored to tears. 

Looking up from the computer, a woman donned in sky-blue scrubs scanned Nacho’s face, and then Troy’s pained concentration. 

“He’s stabbed by glass,” Nacho quickly informed, although in a light voice. Troy raised his head, speaking with more command.

“Yeah,” he added, “what he said.” 

Immediately another woman—a nurse, _overworked_, hair knotted high in a messy bun—took one look at the pair and was opening the door to the office. Hurrying to them, she pulled latex gloves over her hands. 

“How long ago?” 

“15, 20 minutes.” Nacho said, timely, but still quiet.

“Were you attacked?” 

“No,” Troy replied, “Tripped on a bottle of tequila.” 

_Sort of. _

_Not really. _

She moved to examine the wound, Troy parting the jacket slightly with his other hand as Nacho stabilized him. 

“Have you been drinking?” He shook his head. “Do you have ID?” 

He went for his wallet, managing to work it out of his pocket. Having a hell of a time getting his license out of the flap, though, Nacho took it, handing it over to her. 

“OK, we’ll take you back immediately.” Looking at Nacho next, “Who are you?” 

“My cousin,” Troy answered for him, as he lifted his arm from his neck. “..._distant_ cousin.” 

“OK, well, take a seat.” Managing to stand upright, Troy watched as she hurried to the desk a minute, muttering something to the receptionist and handing her his license.

“Hey uh—,” he winced, noticing Nacho scanning the waiting room for a place to sit. “_Miss_? How long’s this gonna’ take?” 

“Once the doctor examines you, we’ll have a better idea.” she said briefly. 

Nacho still stood with knit brows, hand extended should he faint. 

_Not how he thought the night would end. _

Troy huffed, turning to him, somewhat _embarrassed. _

“Look, uh—why don’t you _head home, _you don’t gotta’ stay,” he began. “I’m probably gonna’ be in awhile, and you’ll just be sittin’ here all night. Might as well go eat and get some shut-eye.” 

_Exactly what sounded good right now. _

Nacho raised his eyes to him, solemnly, but he let his expression settle. “...How’ll you get back?” 

“Ah—I’ll be able to drive once I’m done. It ain’t that bad.” He nodded, reassuringly. “_Seriously_, man, don’t sweat it. You good takin’ the tube—er, _metro_?” 

Nacho nodded, subtly. 

The double doors opened with a buzzing sound, a male nurse with _too much spray tan_ pushing a stretcher out. 

Troy rolled his eyes—_the big drama, all out in the open like that—_attracting stares from the waiting room_._

He turned, gripping the cuffs of his jacket, inching it down his arms before the nurse reached over to help. Once it was off him, Nacho took it. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the _Vegas’_ keys, working the bills—discreetly—into Troy’s wallet, before tucking both into the breast pocket. 

Afterward, they lowered the stretcher, aiding Troy in easing down onto it. 

His head met the crunchy, astringent paper lining, just as Nacho set the jacket at his feet. 

_Fuckin’ cold. _

_Hate this. _

“Hey—uh, for _what it’s worth_?” He began, as they raised the stretcher. Nacho’s dark eyes followed him, silent. “I had fun. I know I kinda’ _fucked it up _bein’ a _dumbass_, but—_my luck_, y’know. I uh—I think we should go again sometime. Make it a _thing_, maybe. Only, uh, less of _this mess.” _He fought down a shiver, “once you get your car back it’ll be a real match.” 

Nacho allowed a nod, and a faint smile, the yellowing of his previous bruises still dark under the fluorescent light. 

Troy smirked in return, before they pressed the foot brakes, wheeling him toward the doors.

“I’ll keep ya’ posted,” he added, raising a hand. “Go home. You got one of those, now.” 

Nacho stood in the reception area as the doors shut behind them, AC doing nothing to calm him. The back of his neck pricked in sweat and heat, a knot forming in his throat. 

“Excuse me,” the receptionist said, “sir?”

He heard her, but he didn’t look at her. “Do you need me to call the police?” 

“...No,” Nacho answered after a moment, softly. “It was an accident.” 

Saying nothing more, he turned, the sliding doors opening with a gust as he made his way out to the parking lot. Taking his phone from his pocket, he stared at the glowing screen, Troy’s _Vegas_ gleaming under the streetlight, #_76, 9.500,_ and the fleur-de-lis still painted on the glass.

Dialing, he brought it to his ear, listening to it ring in the stillness. After the second ring, there was a break in the silence. 

“..._Was wondering when you’d call, playa.” _

_“_Something’s happened,” Nacho choked out, but he kept his voice level. He wanted to say more, but when he parted his lips to speak, no sound left. 

“_And_?”

“...S-some _Carnales_ from _Athos_ laid out Troy.” He managed, finally, in a strangled tone. 

There was a paused breath on the line, before Julius’ rumbling words returned,

“..._and what are you gonna’ do about it?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have to admit there’s going to be some flubs in the accuracy of my drag racing knowledge, mostly because this is a fictitious “alter” USA, which means there isn’t an NHRA or their specific events and classes, etc. I’m trying to maintain a convincing parallel, with equivalent names and rules based on what I remember and can research—so a lot of it I have to play by ear. But, the system is generally the same, and it’s not an instructional manual on how to drag race.
> 
> …and I’m sure most of you will have no clue (or interest in,) what I’m talking about anyway.  
The point is, they're having a good time.
> 
> That being said, I haven’t been to a track in like 15 years. So my memory is hazy in general. Plus, I obviously wasn’t in the driver’s seat. (Although, I did get strapped into the backseat for one pass. Don’t try this at home, kids—very stupid and very against the rules and very dangerous lol)
> 
> Still it is downright exhilarating to write, fuckin love it.
> 
> Also, this is still just the prologue to SR1, albeit a bedazzled version. Stay tuned 👀


	9. Over the Edge

The metro rumbled across the tracks, smooth enough, empty and dimly lit. His shoulder rested against the window, eyes following the rooftops of the buildings below. He rubbed his thumb over the cold metal of the VICE9 in his hand, feeling the grooves of the slide and the scratches its previous owner left behind. 

Swallowing, he exhaled steadily, but his breath was quick—heart thumping against its confines, gaze settling into nothing. Factories and clouds of smoggy steam gave way to half-built structures and crumbling buildings, the steeples of the church growing on the horizon. 

Lids heavy, he blinked, pressing a nail into a particularly deep scratch. The ricketing metro car soon slowed to a halt, the platform coming into view. 

Rising from his seat, he tucked the gun into his belt again, meandering down the aisle to the doorway as it slid open. Stepping out onto the platform into crisp night air, he observed lonely streets and dimmed lights, sidewalks dotted in sporadic light. The curled, huddled forms of several people lined the platform’s benches, nestled in their coats, backpacks zip-tied to their wrists—at the Row’s mercy for another night. 

The metro car’s doors closed, automated voice an eerie crackling over an intercom laced in static. 

Descending the first flight of stairs, his knee ached, prompting him to extend a hand to the bannister. The _Friendly Fire _was just down the road, but the neon sign glowed _‘closed_.’ Huffing, he turned on his heel. He memorized the way, eyes following the signs and dampened grass, dogs barking as he passed their fences. Nearing the underpass, he looked both ways, crossing the street toward the _Freckle Bitch’s_ and the gas station, having stood there a day before with the same weighted air and crashing waves. 

Coming to the gas station’s doors, he went to pull the handle—_promptly remembering,_ and pushing instead. 

Immediately greeted to an almost damp air-conditioned gust, the chill was coupled with a sharp smell of rubber and toilet cleaner, emphasized by day-old, mummified hot dogs. Staccato fluorescents hummed overhead, annoying, and forcing him to squint. The cashier occupied himself with a dirty magazine while Nacho turned his focus to the auto section, tucked away in a dingy corner. 

Limping over, he scanned air fresheners and tire cleaner, shuffling down the aisle of overfilled, cluttered shelves. Picking up a blue canister of kerosene, he turned it over, reading the label and murmuring to himself. Eventually, he tucked it under his armpit as he went to a rack of pegboard hooks, finding a plastic funnel and a packet of multicolored tack rags. A shelf lower, he grabbed a can of cheap spray paint and a quart of motor oil. His first trip to the counter brought the cashier’s eyes to raise over the magazine, brow raising, licking his thumb to turn a page. Nacho returned to the shelves with stiffened shoulders and hastened steps, picking up a red 1-gallon gas can and a roll of duct tape next, prompting the cashier to watch him curiously. 

An aisle over, he passed rotary displays of personalized license plates and Stilwater-themed knick knacks, pieces boasting the Northern Islands a thousand colors of poured pewter and assembly-line junk. 

He found a backpack, black nylon, slinging it over his arm.

Slipping behind the aisles along the freezers, he searched for soda, but his pursuit led him to the very end of the aisle, an irritated huff leaving his nostrils. Catching his reflection in the glass door of the walk-in freezer, he paused at the sight of his expression, lowering his eyes. Opening the door, he hoisted a six-pack of beer off a stack before returning to the counter. 

The cashier, now invested, looked up from his _literature_ as Nacho set the newest additions to his haul on the counter, one thing after another, silently. The last thing to find the scuffed aluminum was a $100 bill from his winnings. 

The cashier leaned forward in his metal chair, it creaking a bit as the front legs touched the linoleum. 

Blinking, lazily, his pale gaze hovered at Nacho’s stooped shoulders and tense arms, his black eyes set and distant. 

“...You _serious_?” 

Saying nothing, his gaze lowered to the counter for a moment. He then reached for a candy-colored plastic lighter from a cardboard display, tossing it, clattering on the metal. 

Staring at each other again, the man tilted his head. 

“ID,_ amigo_?” He asked in a drawl, flatly, setting a hand down on the beer. 

Nacho reached into his pocket, placing an additional $100 bill down instead. 

Snorting, the man turned his head, sliding the money off the counter, folding it over his thumb and tucking it into his shirt pocket, picking up the magazine again. “...Pump 2,” he nodded, flicking his eyes out the window. “Help yourself.” 

Nacho held open the backpack, loading it, before zipping it closed and lifting the beer and the gas can from the counter. Flicking the pages to straighten them, the cashier nodded again, bluntly. “Yeah—you have a nice night, now.” 

The bell jingled as he stepped out into the parking lot, adjusting the strap on his shoulder, crossing quickly to the pump. Unscrewing the top to the gas can, he freed the nozzle from the port, pushing it into the can. Squeezing the trigger, he listened to the liquid sloshing, crouching down to watch the can fill halfway. Nose stinging from the fumes, they warped in the light, before he took it away and returned it to the pump. 

The dizzying stench was as pungent as it was nostalgic, oddly satisfying as he screwed the cap back on and rounded the storefront. The bathrooms were two separate doors around the outer edge of the building, and squatting behind the cover of a dumpster, he checked the rafter’s corner for any security cameras. 

Finding none, he set to work, taking the backpack from his arm and leaning it against the metal. As he tugged the zipper, he paused at the sight of the jumbled sleeve cuff drooping over his knuckles. 

Eyes dropping to the tarred asphalt, he shrugged out of the borrowed purple flannel, taking it by the sleeves and looping it around his waist, tying it off. His orange bandana still in his pocket, he unfurled it, folding the paisley cloth into a crisp triangle and bringing it to his face. Knotting it behind his head, he adjusted it down over his nose, checking the lot to ensure he was still alone. 

Under the beam of the streetlight, he picked up one of the beers, popping the cap with his teeth. The beer foamed, and taking a long sip, he grimaced while holding it away from him, dumping it out into the grass, shaking it until it emptied entirely. It clinked on the asphalt as he set it upright, reaching for the gas can and the motor oil, unscrewing the top, pouring some of the lustrous, thick liquid into the can and swirling it. 

He ripped open the cardboard securing the rags, and freeing them, set them in a folded pile over his thigh while he dug the pocket knife from his tattered cargo pants. Unfolding one of the rags, he flipped open the knife, using it to split the seam, tearing it into shredded strips before a small, frayed pile accumulated beside him. Taking up the bottle again, he worked one of the strips down into it with his thumb, doing his best to cram his finger through the spout before switching to using the blade itself.

Holding the bottle up to light to ensure it’d reached the base, he took another piece and wrapped the neck, tying it off. He pushed the funnel down inside next, carefully stabilizing it as he poured the _knock-off-napalm _into the bottle, filling it, thoroughly soaking the rag inside. The final preparation came as he uncapped the kerosene, dabbing the rag over the spout, dampening it. 

Working a strip of duct tape free with his teeth, he tore it, further securing the wick in place, preventing any from leaking. He returned the bottle to its cardboard carrier, one readied Molotov, before starting on the next. 

With three cocktails completed, he sat back on his heels, arms tracked out over his knees, studying them. The moon arched overhead, clouds parting in the coastal wind, illuminating the still night further. Not having much time, he rose, opening the dumpster and stashing away the gas can, kerosene, motor oil, scraps, and packaging, tearing away the cardboard and stabilizing the Molotovs inside the backpack. With the lighter in his pocket, cocktails and the can of spray paint loaded in the bag, he picked up the remaining beers—shutting the lid, and tugging down the bandana. 

He walked, limp still pronounced—aching, ignoring it—having passed these particular streets many times. He moved between filthy alleyways, arguments and loud televisions dull murmurs behind their brick walls, the occasional barrel fire warming a chattering few. It brought memories of the trees in the woods, in Clafflin’s park, with the crickets and las luciérnagas—_lightning bugs. _

Stopping, he paused, tan, scuffed work boots resting over a worn away chalk outline of a body—one after another down the reflective, cracked asphalt. Raising his head, somber, black eyes catching the light of the flame, he stared at the graffiti on the wall, and the darkened stain long rinsed away, but still leaving it changed. It was the very same half-finished, brazen streak of paint that killed a dozen people one week before.

_“Some junkie motherfucker could’ve killed my lieutenant. _

_ From where I stand, you let it happen.” _

His eyes lingered on the smeared chalk silhouettes partially rinsed in rain, having nearly acquired one of his own. The booming revolver, punctuated with a howling whistle, still hovered in his ears—close by, and ebbing somewhere at the edge of his focus. 

_“If it were anybody else? They would’ve looked the other way.” _

_ Julius spoke—sharp, and cold. _

_“...does that sit right with you?” _

Brows furrowing, he swallowed against the stirring in his chest. The searing, rising contempt found his hands, flexing them into fists, over and over. 

“Hey, kid, where’ve you been?” One of the older men around the fire called, breaking the silence. Clad in a patchy canvas jacket and a ball cap, he smiled a little, skin practically hanging from his bones. “Been one of _thems days_, huh?” 

Nacho looked up, slowly, unwavering. Recognizing him, he was eventually coaxed from thought, shoulders relaxing slightly. He limped over, handing the remaining three beers to the old man for himself and two companions, friendly nodding—more or less—from their cinderblock seats. 

The old man balked, pleasantly surprised, eye contact disjointed as he awkwardly smiled out his startled thanks. Nacho said nothing as he turned, pulling his gaze away. 

“H-hey!” He called again, confused. “You ain’t stayin’? You got work tonight?” 

Nacho raised a hand without looking back, quietly waving his goodbye. 

Skirting the coast, he could see the coast of_ Athos Bay _through the buildings, the black lake sparkling under scant harbor lights, dilapidated docks crooked silhouettes breaching the water. 

Crossing the street, he walked another block, before the guardrails and levies were in view. The coastline, filled with antiquated buildings, sat in a slumped state of storm-damaged ruin, save for a sketchy pawnshop and a 1-Hour Photo developer. It smelled like rot and stale water, and the concrete slope below into the Lake collected the remains of dead fish and algae. An acrid, singed vinegar smell hinted at something a lot stronger and _a lot cheaper _than the usual fumes, bringing his nose to wrinkle. 

The street was empty, the entirety of Athos, except for the harbor not far away, primed in a heavy silence. Not even the lingering drunk squatted in those buildings_—smart_, given that everyone knew better, and nobody knew about it unless they’d heard it from somewhere else. 

Nacho approached a boarded up, spray-painted building, steel _Brown-Bagger’s_ sign badly rusted and half-hanging from the storefront, awning tarp long threaded from the strength of coastal gales. 

His boots crunched broken glass, trash, and the occasional smashed syringe, all scattered about on potholed concrete and chipped sidewalks. Attentive eyes studied the brick, and the wood, damp from the lakeside,_ but not damp enough. _

As he neared the front door, glass long gone and replaced with stapled screen and chicken wire, he could hear muffled voices inside, what sounded like a radio or a television. Listening, he tried to separate the potential voices, but couldn’t make out any useful conversation. 

Pinching the fabric at his neck, he brought the bandana over his face again, securing it at his nose. He raised the plastic lighter, taking it between his teeth, lips clamping down on it. Reaching for the gun, he hooked his hand around the grip carefully, unzipping the backpack. Molotov in one hand, and the VICE9 in the other, he took a step back. 

_A single breath through the nose, felt down to trembling fingers. _

Snapping up his good leg, he kicked beneath the doorknob, lock snapping and door flinging open—sending brass screws and splintering wood scattering to the floor. Cocking the gun into single-action, he raised his hand, black eyes unblinking down the sights as a confused man turned—mouth falling open, hands fumbling at his belt. 

Nacho fired, once, twice, gunshots deafening, striking him in the shoulder and chest, flash leaving spots in his vision. The _Carnale _crumpled, dark blood gushing from him in his guttural gasping while feet scattered upstairs, clambering, chairs overturning. Nacho quickly crouched, flipping over a table and sending an ashtray and poker chips cascading over the filthy tile. Taking cover, he watched a pair of feet stumble down the stairwell in the hall, and throwing out his arm, squeezed the trigger, flinching with every bang ringing his ears, catching the man in his knee and thigh. He cried out, losing balance and dropping down the stairs with clumsy banging and tumbling, collapsing into a fetal curl on the floor. 

Nacho vaulted over the table, sucking in a breath, firing at his ribs point-blank, watching a sudden splatter of blood paint the stripped plaster. 

Heart pounding, his eyes shot ahead in the screaming, two other men rounding a corner with outstretched guns. Nacho dove behind the door jamb, wall quickly filling with smoking bullet holes, losing track of how many shots echoed in his ears. Gasping, breath hot on the bandana, he quickly pinched the Molotov between his arm and ribs, sparking the lighter, igniting the rag with a sharp blast of heat. Fire enrapturing, he locked his jaw with a grunt, back pressed to the wall, lobbing it over his shoulder. 

Their disjointed shouts took on a more uniformed, panicked scream, a break in the shooting, as glass shattered, blast of erupting fire immediately drowning them. Nacho turned his head, gun in hand, eyes steely, as he glimpsed the room engulfed in liquid flames and dense, black smoke. Free hand coming to clasp down on his nose and mouth, he sucked in a clean breath, aiming—shooting the third man in the stomach, and forth in his back as he tried to escape through a boarded window. 

Getting to his feet, quickly, he hurried into the hall, turning a right past another room, littered with plastic containers, tubes, and junk. Gaze darting, quickly, he cursed under his breath, dashing away with a fevered pace, following the dysfunctional exit signs. 

Rounding the store, he noticed a final storage room at the back, stacked boxes inside, thick smoke beginning to choke the air. Ducking lower out of it, coming into the room, his heart skipped a beat as he locked gazes with another man, working the steel emergency exit door. 

Wide-eyed, frantic, he ploughed into the door with his shoulder, it slamming against the outside brick. Nacho gritted his teeth, charging after him, gun snapping into view and firing. His bullets missed, chips of stone hurling away as the bullets clipped them instead of his target. Sprinting after him, leg stabbed with pain, lungs _burning, _the man in a filthy red graphic shirt and beanie didn’t dare look over his shoulder at his pursuer. 

Nacho breathed, firing, trying to aim, but as his third shot rang out a sudden blast of heat stung his back and shoulders, throwing him from his feet as the very ground rumbled. 

His knees met the asphalt, scraping, tearing holes in the cloth—chest slamming as he covered his head, bottles in his backpack colliding. The windows shattered, fire having reached the drug lab—sending the entire building up in putred, strangling flames. Coughing, he squinted in the smoke as it plumed into the sky, forehead slicked in sweat and hair sticking to his face, before he heard a transmission sputtering. 

The man worked the ignition of a crappy convertible, frantic screaming doing nothing to convince the engine to turn over. Pushing himself to his feet, the stench of gasoline and smoke parching his throat, Nacho injected rushing adrenaline and strength into his legs, sprinting as fast as he could muster, barreling down the alleyway toward the car. 

The engine turned over as he neared it, the man in the front seat flooring the gas, but Nacho threw himself at the door. Hooking an arm over it, his boots dragged on concrete as his body slammed into the side, picking up speed. Nacho’s frustrated grunts were drowned in the screeching of the driver, along with the gurgling engine and lack of a muffler. Keeping his elbow hooked, arm threatening to give, shoulder nearly pulled from the socket, Nacho braced against the door and threw his knee over the edge, fingers grasping at the passenger seat. 

“Get off, motherfucker!” The driver screamed, flailing his fist at him, but unable to reach. _“Fuck—fuck!”_ He swerved, attempting to throw him, but Nacho held on, nose wrinkled and eyes fierce as he struggled. 

The car hit the curb, front tires bucking, sending the convertible over it and nearly throwing Nacho from his grip. He hung on, gun still in hand, car speeding down the street toward Mission Beach. Cursing, jaw slamming into the door frame, Nacho squeezed the trigger. The sudden gunshot sparked terrified screaming from the driver, as he sped up, crashing into a wooden fence, narrowly missing Nacho’s side. He rounded the bend, careening over the grassy bank, tires kicking up sand as it sped down the beach toward the highway bridge supports. Nacho raised his eyes, sucking in a breath, before he fired again—bullet striking the windshield, glass a kaleidoscope of rippling cracks, before he squeezed his eyes shut. 

He braced, letting go, in freefall far longer than he anticipated. His hip slammed into sand, airborne again, before he was sent rolling, the car colliding with the concrete support. 

A sickening crunching of metal rang out over the lake, drivers atop the bridge immediately braking with squealing tires. 

Nacho lay there, at least one of the bottles broken inside the bag, attempting to gauge feeling in his limbs, wind knocked from him. Breath quick and dry, burning in his throat, he slowly rose through the hitching pain in his diaphragm—back soaked in gasoline, fumes stabbing at his eyes. 

Letting the straps fall down his arms, he maneuvered out of the backpack, retching as he tried to suck air between his teeth—ripping the bandana down his face. On his knees, every muscle resisted, skin pricking with numb heat, arms coated in sand and a dozen micro cuts, seeping beads of blood. Pushing himself to his feet, one after the other, he walked. The grunts choked in his chest, vision speckled in black, as the man was dragging his bloodied body from the crumpled door. 

Nacho limped up behind him, steady and unrelenting, reaching down with calloused hands, snatching him by the shirt. He barely listened to his pleads, thin body weightless in his grip as he dragged him to the bank. 

“_Stop! Whattaya want?_ Let me go, please I—!” 

“_Heriste a mi amigo, _” Nacho murmured, darkly, in a broken voice, _“te mueres.” _

_“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, please—!” _

Nacho clenched his teeth through hitching breaths, lifting him, throwing his hip into the motion, the man dropping into the tide with a cascading splash. He heaved, throwing his head above the water, gasping for air, hat coming loose. He turned over, arms pushing against the wet sand beneath, before Nacho waded over him, feet on either side as he threw out a begging hand. 

_“Please, kid!_ I’ve seen you at the docks—_don’t do this! You don’t want to do this!” _

Nacho pushed his knee into his back, submerging him, holding him there. Waist-high in water, he grunted, jaw locked, as the man squirmed and thrashed beneath him, attempting to twist free. Bubbles and sediment kicked up in the murky water, as he pushed him down further, all of his weight on him. 

After another moment of muted gurgling, the struggling tapered off, as several larger air pockets escaped. Nacho swallowed, throat tight, eyes glazed, before he rose—stepping off of him, balance swayed by the tide. 

Sirens blared, cops and firetrucks, somewhere over the buildings from the twin highway bridge. His chest heaved, and he wiped his mouth, peering down at the darkened silhouette in the water between his feet, before reaching in and grabbing him again. 

He dragged the limp body, suddenly much heavier, to the crumpled car, hoisting him into the seat. He brought the bandana over his nose again as he spotted lights illuminating in windows, shadows of alarmed faces turned his way behind glass panes. 

Only now did he notice Troy’s green house on the corner, mere yards away. Kicking himself, he chewed his lip, before limping hastily to his backpack, the flashing red and blue lights not far, Saints Row steadily blanketing in smoke. 

Picking up his gun, he shoved it in his waistband, digging for the can of spray paint in the bag. Returning to the site of the crashed car with a pained groan, he shook the can and sprayed sloppy swipes on the support beam concrete. 

Then, throwing the entire bag of shattered Molotovs and leaking gasoline into the car, he took the lighter from his pocket, flicking it, lighting the corner of the seat cover. Within minutes, it ignited, as Nacho ran for the bridge supports, inching along the sediment bank beneath, disappearing from sight. 

_____ 

Troy poked at a cup of jellied _mac & cheese,_ bright sunshine subdued through the drapes of his hospital room. Sighing, he set the plastic fork down on the tray, head lulling back against a papery pillow, arm full of tape and tubes, heart monitor clipped on his ring finger relaying a steady beeping. He felt _half-microwaved, _exposed arms in his hospital gown too warm, but his legs beneath the glorified sheet too cold. Through the painkillers, he could sparsely feel the pressure of the stitches running down his abdomen where they’d _flayed him,_ refreshingly _calm _as he sunk down into the cot’s mattress. 

_At least a good night's sleep came out of it. _

Bored, and having difficulty keeping his head upright in the way he wanted, his vision was curtained by jagged sandy tufts, _but he was honestly too high to care. _He reached a veiny hand to the end table, fingers finding his phone, actually maneuvering it into his grip taking a lot longer than it should. 

_Suddenly wondering why he never bothered to put any games on it,_ he flipped it open, seeing he had a message, as well as _thirteen missed calls. _

Sighing, and blinking lazily, he keyed it open. At first, he didn’t comprehend_‘restricted’ _repeating down the screen, simply staring at it. Only after he clicked open the messages and his eyes followed the segmented text did the beeping of the monitor quicken, throat tightening. 

_From: [RESTRICTED] _

_5/13/06/4:32AM _

_Answer the phone _

_What happened? _

_Update ASAP _

Troy swallowed, hard, leaning up a bit in his hospital bed, as much as his body would allow. His thumbs worked the keys, clumsily, blinking, trying to stabilize his vision. 

_ From: [ME] _

_ 5/13/06/10:05AM_

_ Don’t text this #!!! _

His back slumped against the pillow, chest rising and falling. The drugs subdued the stress as he worked to delete everything, but his neck and ears still steadily burned. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he squeezed the phone in his other hand, closing his mouth and focusing his breathing. 

Opening his eyes, pupils thin dots, he noticed a television in the corner on a pressboard stand, his warped reflection in the dusty, black screen. Eventually, he reached for the remote—_it was somewhere on the end table_—and finding it, he pressed the red button. It illuminated with a static flash, and he thumbed the volume, watching as black bars of delayed subtitles displayed in blocky chunks at the bottom of the screen. He flipped, quickly, before he found the local news. 

_“This is Jane Valderamma reporting in, live, from Mission Beach. We return to the site now where five lives were claimed last night in Saints Row, in what Chief of Police Richard Monroe has deemed yet another act of encroaching gang warfare. Between midnight and 1AM, a man now identified as a known felon and active member of Los Carnales, was found horrifically burned to death in his vehicle following the massive immolation of a suspected drug lab in Athos Bay.” _A cropped mugshot of a thin, slouching man with sunken eyes faded into view over scrolling marquee headlines. 

_The very same. _

_Don't like where this is going._

Troy was still, eyes darting, jaw flexing. 

“_Firefighters and law enforcement worked tirelessly through the night to extinguish the blaze, but the building was rendered completely leveled. Thankfully, no civilian injuries have been reported, but damage to public property is expansive, with immediate evacuation of surrounding homes and businesses required.” _

The cameras showed panning images of smoking rubble and the reflective suits of firefighters and their helmets, before the remains of a completely charred convertible behind rows of caution tape came into view—a tow truck loading it. He dug his thumb nail into the remote’s button, fidgeting. 

_Behind my fucking house…! _

Heart pounding, he squinted, but his brows raised as the scrawled graffiti above the car revealed, in yellow paint: 

_ Vice Kings. _

“..._What the—?_” He breathed, brows knitting. 

_“Witnesses claim to have seen a man at the scene last night, but no other identifying details could be gathered. If anyone has any information, please contact your local branch of Stillwater PD.”_

Troy swallowed, hard, as the news returned to a different anchor, _suddenly preoccupied with the weather. _Pressing his back against the pillow, he raised a hand, rubbing his forehead as he stared down at his lap. 

_Goddammit, Nacho._

Thoughts stacking, _spiraling, _he flipped open the phone again, thumbing through the contacts, highlighting Julius’ number. Just as he dialed, fingers tapping nervously on his thigh, he heard a telephone ringing—a muffled, pre-recorded sound. Confused, he took the phone away from his cheek, staring at it, before bringing it back to his ear. 

It was only as Julius came to his bedside, brows raised, _amused,_ hands in the pockets of his slacks did Troy turn his head. 

He jumped, startled, hand flying to his chest. _“Fuck—! Jesus Christ, _man—! Do you come outta’ the _fuckin’ walls—?”_

He smirked, leaning his weight on his other foot. 

“How you feeling?” 

“Wh—when’d_ you_ get here? _No, scratch that—what _are you doing here?” 

“Came to check in.” He replied, turning and dragging over a chair. Helping himself to a seat, Troy’s unfocused eyes followed him, and he nodded reproachfully.

“Oh, yeah—sure, get comfortable,” he muttered, bitterly, letting his head sink into the pillow. “...and what the fuck you_ wearin’_, man, you look like my fuckin’ highschool_ art teacher.” _

Julius chuckled, folding his arms again over his crisp dress shirt and gold chain, beret angled neatly over his head. 

“Take it you’ve heard the news.” 

“You mind explainin’ _what the fuck’s goin’ on_?” Troy’s voice cracked as he reached for the IV dispenser. “Did the VK really make a move last night?” 

“Sure did,” Julius replied, coyly, bringing the other to open an eye at him. “At least, that’s the word on the street. As for the truth, well. The kid did good.” 

Troy expelled a long, shuddering breath from his nostrils, thumb pressing the button a few times. 

“...Easy, son.” Julius commented, some biting edge to his voice. 

“It’s a fixed dose,” Troy shot back, “Don’t fuckin’ patronize me, a’ite, not today—I ain’t in the fuckin’ _mood_. You put him up to this, huh? Yeah, quick question: what the _fuck is wrong with you—?_” 

“Calm your _uppity ass down_.” He retorted, tone dropping and unfolding his arms.

“No, that’s _bullshit_, you _can’t just_—!” 

“The kid did _what had to be done_.” Julius interrupted, in a lowered voice, irritation settling on his brow as he leaned in. “...Did what you _couldn’t do_, which is why you’re lying here now, and he’s not. So what if it took down a drug lab; the place needed a match tooken to it anyhow, you know that. You dicked around for a _month _looking for that stye, and well, he took care of it. In my eyes, that shows he’s got what it takes.” 

Troy’s jaw flexed, brow flinching, as the painkillers started to take effect. He met Julius’ steady gaze, his brown listless eyes as faded and as hollow as could be.

“...How’d he know where it was?” 

“Beats me,” Julius tilted his chin slightly. “But it was the kid’s idea to pin it on the Vice Kings.”

Troy’s brows furrowed, pondering. Chewing his cheek, he watched the TV screen, absentmindedly, before the realization settled in. 

“...He’s trying to start a turf war between the Carnales and VK.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Day before yesterday, me and the new guy hit the VK, right?” Troy began, “Talk around town says nothin’ ‘bout it bein’ _Saints_ that did it, a’ite—as far as I can tell they just knows the guys that did it was a Mexican kid and a gringo. Put two-and-two together, bets are they think LC took a swing Thursday. So, with this next move bein’ framed as _retaliation_…” 

Julius raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips, before nodding slightly. 

“Crazy enough that it might just work.” 

“...This ain’t gonna’ be pretty,” Troy shook his head, stiffly. “The only place this could go _tits up_ is—” 

“Athos docks,” Julius finished, with another subtle nod. “...I’ll be damned.” 

“...Yeah.” Troy murmured, tone strong where his heart wasn’t. _ The Row’s last contested territory. _ “...Seems he was payin’ attention last week. Let them kill each other, and we finish it.” 

_What’re you doing, kid?_

“Lucky for you, all we can do now is wait.” Julius replied. “How long ‘til you’re up and running?” 

“...Discharged tomorrow, ” Troy answered eventually, distracted. “—nicked my guts, I guess, bleeding inside. I’ll be off my feet at least a week, maybe two.” 

“First some punk, now a junkie?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I _know,” _Troy snipped, glancing at him. “Get off me, I’m fuckin’ _tired.” _

“You’re going to be fucking _dead_ if you don’t get your shit together, son.” Julius warned, uncrossing his legs and standing. “But for now, get some rest. Give me a call when you’re back in working order.” 

Turning, his hands found his pockets again, the clicking of his boots on the floor. Troy watched him leave from the corner of his eye, quietly. Once he knew he was out of earshot, he hastily flipped open the phone again, dialing. 

Nacho sat with his back to the wall, knees to his chest, face pressed into his arms. His black hair spilled over his shoulders, a disheveled clumpy mess, clothes stiff from the dried lake water. Strips of orange sunlight shone through the blinds, streaking across paneled walls, his empty new house flooded in warm, morning light. The phone rang, buzzing, rattling on the wooden floor beside his knife, gun, and money, work boots set out to dry. 

He lifted his head, listening to it ring, but couldn’t bring himself to answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t make molotovs at home.


	10. Code Purple

_Almost two weeks, now. _

Troy blinked, slowly, the glow of the television in his eyes. With his cheek pressed to the pillow, he courted sleep from his couch, fingers gingerly resting over his injury—now taped closed, pain occasionally shooting to the tender mending. 

_Used to it. _

The rain trampled the roof, Dutch oven catching the steady drip of a leak in the kitchen. His phone sat on the coffee table, making a home alongside a crammed ashtray, two prescription pill bottles—_what’s a few more?—_and a notebook, the front cover full of scribbling.

As he watched a commercial for a car dealership, hollowly, a limp wrist rose to his face, thumb rubbing his forehead. He scraped the nail across his eyebrow a few times, idly, a man in a tacky suit showing off his lot under a bolded phone number. The janky camera panned to a red Bootlegger—newer, and restored.

It made him _smile_, a little, heavy lids drooping closed for a moment, before opening again as a louder commercial began right after the last. He glanced at the table to his phone, all the scratches in the plastic caught in the dim light, until he eventually reached for it.

Plucking it from the table, he exhaled quietly from his nose, blinking away some haze, flipping the screen into view. _Not sure what he expected to find, _he pondered, listening to the rain and the cluttered cacophony of the TV, before raising his other hand. 

Clicking to the message inbox, his thumbs worked clumsily, cycling through the letters with some annoyance. 

_From: [ME] _

_To: N.C. _

_5/26/06/1:14AM _

_U OK?_

He stared at it, _two whole words, _wondering if that was _two too many. _

_Samson raised his brows thoughtfully as he fiddled with a napkin, other hand on his perspiring beer, halfway drained. With his attention torn between Troy talking himself through his thoughts, and the football game on the bar’s corner television, he eventually took another sip, working the froth from the stubble on his lip. _

_“Look, I just saw him, what—day before yesterday. I’ve got him goin’ on parts runs for me. Scrap and chopping, y’know what I’m saying. He seemed fine; ain’t no ray of sunshine, but. Normal, I guess.” _

_Troy listened, eyes lingering on nothing. _

_“...and?” _

_“He’s been real good about it—on time, discreet, didn’t bring any heat down on my shop. He knows his cars, so that speeds the whole thing up. I heard he was doing other favors, too. Julius’...friend, uh—what’s-his-face, managed to get some girls...because a certain mutual acquaintance of ours roughed up their pimp.” _

_“Nacho?” Troy repeated, incredulously. “Jesus Christ, when was this?”_

_“Can’t say for sure. By the sound of it Julius really put the kid to work.” _

Troy continued to scrutinize his unsent message until the backlight dimmed.

He reconsidered his words—_‘I have your helmet—helmets?’ _

No_. _

_‘Pick up the damn phone’_

Double-no_. _

_‘How the fuck did you know where the liquor store drug lab was?’ _

A twinge of guilt kicked up in his chest, and he pushed the thought away. 

_Pop a pill; you’re getting bitchy. _

With a quiet exhale, he set the screen down on his chest, rubbing his eyes. He thumbed the end key several times, deleting the entire thing. 

But, suddenly, the phone buzzed in his hand—jingling. Confused, he raised it into view, but his eyes lidded into a glare. 

Frowning, and collecting himself, he took in a long breath before finally clicking the green key and bringing it to his ear. 

“..._Hello?” _He croaked, irritably. 

“I’m gonna’ be _brief,” _a low, gravely voice came, as Troy rolled his eyes. “You mind tellin’ me why the coroner's report on my desk right now—_which I don’t want to be at on a Friday night_—says that cause of death for one Vice Kings affiliated is a baseball-sized, .44 magnum _bullet hole_?” 

“Someone had a magnum.” Troy answered, flatly, in a droning tone. “...That why you called at 1:00 in the morning? Ask how a gun works?” 

“Not many out there waving their pricks around in the form of a Hollywood _gun_, Bradshaw. Were you at the storage unit scene?” 

“No.” He lied, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That was a Carnales hit.” 

“Eyewitnesses talk of two men—one Caucasian, other Amerindian, leaving the scene.” 

“Carnales.” 

“It’s across the street from the Memorial Church. You really _expect me to believe that?_” 

“Don’t know what to _tell you_, Rich.” Troy exhaled, “That's a description of _half the Midwest_; I ain’t always hangin’ around there either, OK—I’m all over town on a daily basis.” 

“Five dead and a fire that wiped out half a block. Nobody seems to be able to confirm VK made that pass. Despite how it looks, I’m certain it’s the work of a vigilante.” 

Troy’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling. “_Whattaya mean?_ ‘Course it was _VK_; they’ve been tryin’ to move in for _months_.” 

“Not buying it. Witnesses say _one_ guy. The fires were started with Molotov cocktails, bottle used a generic make from a local gas station. I had someone go down there and question the vendor—he was uncooperative. Tried to get a warrant for his footage, he didn’t _have_ any footage. But, street cams showed a guy leaving the parking lot on foot shortly after midnight.” 

“Oh yeah?” Troy asked, tiredly, “Description?” 

“Face was covered.” His eyes fell shut again, relieved. “Let’s see—‘short, brown-skinned, wearing plaid.’ What do you know?” 

“Sounds like most of Ezpata,” He countered , “I’m pushed to my limit as is, a’ite—a vigilante ain’t _my problem_. If it wasn’t gang-affiliated, _psh—“ _he scratched his forehead, “there’s a lot of locals ‘round here that ain’t too happy with the state of things, either.” 

“_Pretty unhappy_.” 

“How do you know it wasn’t _drug-related_? They blew up a _drug lab, _and burned a guy alive in his _car. _If that ain’t _cartel_ I dunno’ what is.” 

“Yeah, _see, _that’s the _funny thing_. Corpse burned, but the lungs full of water.” 

“..._Huh?” _

_“_He was burned _post-mortem_—drowned first. The intent, I’d say—one of two things. First was to send a message. Second, leave the victim unrecognizable.”

Troy listened, tense. 

_A little scary, Nacho. _

“A fingerprint was salvaged. LC affiliate, sure, but not _cartel,” _he snorted, “...you remember a _Puskarich_?” 

“Uh—” 

“‘Course you do; your first rodeo in Stilwater, afterall—we’ll call it our _trial run_. Boy, did he _fuck you over, or what?”_

“What’s your point?” 

“I find it funny how a guy that’s been off the radar for nearly a year— a guy whose buddies got you _excommunicated _from the Lopez circle—“

“_What is your point?” _Troy repeated, interrupting. 

“He turns up _dead_ in your _backyard_, framed _poorly_ to look like a VK hit, weeks before Orejuela is rumored for a visit. Motive, method? All that’s missing is the alibi.”

_Orejuela—? Shit. _

“Rich, I was in the _hospital_ that night—I’m _still_ fucked up,” Troy began, _with some mock reassurance_. “I had _surgery._ You know more than me at this point.” 

“Because you were _drunk and stupid, _right. There were _two_ in the initial description. You see where I’m going with this?” 

“I don’t,” Troy snipped, agitated, “and I’ll be real _frank_, I don’t like what you’re insinuating, OK—and _what_ _the fuck _does _Orejuela_ have to do with it? _If_ I was involved in all this _reaching_, why would _he _matter?” 

“Powerful man; his first impressions are invaluable to a certain pair of brothers. Any loose lips are a _Victor-sized_ _problem_, even for a _good cop_.” 

“I didn’t _kill him,_” Troy finally raised his voice, “and I didn’t get nobody to do it _for me_, neither, a’ite—he would’ve been a _key witness_; a guy like that would’ve caved _no problem_. Why the fuck _would I do that_?” 

“I don’t know _why the fuck _you’d do _a lot of things, _but I’m _routinely surprised_. I’ll make this real simple: back off from the VK.” He stated, bluntly. “I _mean it.”_

Troy exhaled, rubbing his eyes.

“So, it comes out. The real _brass tacks_; you don’t give a _fuck _about all this _Carnales shit._ _Look, _chief, my _job_ is to—” 

“You’re one phone call away from gettin’ your ass shipped back to Crown Heights with _no job. _Or _worse_; do I really need to spell that out in crayon for you? I’m the only thing keeping your ass out of prison, or the _riverbed._” 

“And I’m your only UC still _breathing_,” Troy quipped, squinting at the ceiling again. “Funny how _that_ works, huh? Why you think _that is_?” 

“Keep your nose out of it; this is your final warning. If you get caught fucking with them? I’ve never seen you in my life.”

“..._Noted_,” he eventually muttered, sharply. “...was there anything _else? _How ‘bout that _hazard pay_, huh? You get my insurance worked out?” 

“..._Goodnight_, detective.” Monroe retorted, gruffly. “_Remember_ what I _said_.”

Troy’s lips parted to speak, but the line disconnected. 

Working his jaw, he took the phone away, deleting the call record, and returned it to the table with an angry clatter. 

He weighed the _want _against the _need, _and ultimately his hand found the orange bottle next. Popping the cap, he tapped a quartered oxycodone into his palm, swallowing it with a swig of stale water, before pressing his head to the pillow again. 

He resigned himself to _whatever _on the television, breathing slowing, drowsiness overtaking him in that familiar, comfortable contentment. 

A heavy sleep soon found him, dreamless and blank, settled in his limbs and his chest—it was only as repetitious banging crescendoed, the rattling of wood on brass hinges, did his mind resurface—the sound slowly working its way into his thoughts. 

He barely stirred, neck damp with cold sweat as he turned his head, ever so slightly. The banging continued, eventually sorting that it wasn’t the television. Cracking open an eye, he listened still, skin immediately clammy as he eased up into the main path of the air conditioner. Only after realizing the banging was coming from his front door, across the room, did his breath hitch. His hand fumbled for the revolver on the end table, reaching over his head, pushing himself from the couch to his feet. 

_What the hell—? _

Still torn halfway between sleep and consciousness, his body strained to respond, grip weak and limbs delayed. He was crossing his floor, barefoot and ragged, shoulder pressing to the wall with the gun at his side. Slumped there in _his boxers and a wifebeater,_ heart pounding noticeably in his ears—_oh yeah, real menacing. _

“Who’s there?” He barked over the rain, unused voice cracking. 

“Troy!” Nacho’s voice came, urgent and pleading, “_¡Abre! ¡Es una emergencia, tenemos que apurarnos!” _

Troy turned, working the deadbolt and the door chain, cracking it halfway. Nacho slouched on the step, soaked to the bone with wide eyes—gun in hand and tucked into his armpit.

“_What the—?_” Troy balked, immediately swinging the door open further. “_Holy shit_, man, what’s—?” 

“_I’m sorry, _Troy, there was nobody at the church, I didn’t know _where to go_. We gotta’ _hurry_,” he told him, quickly, _frantic_, “Athos is—!” 

“_Get in here_, the fuck’s _wrong with you_—?” He grabbed him under the arm, yanking him over the threshold, dipping out the door and scanning the streets with adjusting eyes. _Empty_, save for the pouring rain battering the pavement, reflecting streetlights. 

Slamming the door, he turned back into the house—eyes immediately jerking to Nacho as he stood there, dripping on his floor, hands shaking and hair a stringy curtain over his cheeks. 

“_What-now?” _He stammered, raking a hand through his own sweaty hair, trying to fight away the grogginess. _“What’s wrong?” _

“They _attack_ the _terminal_,” Nacho panted, pushing his hair out of his face and flinging water away. “The crew’s held _hostage!”_

“What—?”

“The _docks_; Vice Kings—!” 

“_Shit,” _Troy spat, immediately rushing to his coffee table, snatching up the phone. Flipping it open, thumbs working the keys, “Did you call Julius? Where’s your _fuckin’ phone_?” 

“It’s ruined,” Nacho answered, “I escape over the quay—¡_escúchame_!”

“For _fuck’s sake_...” 

“Vice Kings come with three cars, there probably more now. Carnales send for _backup_; they were comin’ as I ran here—“

“The fuck were you _doin’ down there_, Nacho?” Troy snapped, interrupting as he listened to the phone ring. “And how’d you get here so quick _on foot?_”

“I run _fast—_it doesn’t matter!” He interjected. “Troy, listen—_el capataz’s_ _dead, dispararon_. Una docena contratado estibadoresare loyal to _los Carnales, _the rest are just _regular people._ We can’t let them _kill them_; they _will _if it mean hurting their income.” 

“‘Esti’..._stevedores, _you mean? Longshoremen? Some of you are Carnales?” 

“_Sí, _yes.” He answered, slowly, organizing his thoughts. 

Troy stared at him through steely eyes a moment, before his lips settled into a line. 

_Yeah...really starting to get it now, Rich. _

_Motherfuckers. _

“Gimme’ a minute,” he turned his head, listening. 

Nacho watched him nervously, but was distracted by the unexpected linework tattoo of a compass, _of all things,_ on Troy’s shoulder. As he turned to pace, another much larger, intricate tattoo of a kraken sprawled over his upper back in black ink, tentacles roping out beneath the fabric. 

Confused, his mouth parted to speak, but he noticed the paleness in his face next, needing a shave, hair curled from sweat, bags creasing his sockets—_the pills on the table… _

Guilty, his eyes fell to the floor, clenching his fists. 

Troy spoke, suddenly, walking with the phone pinched between his cheek and shoulder. 

“Julius? You up? Hey—_look_, it’s goin’ down in Athos; if we move now we can crash the party and take all them sons of bitches out at once.” 

Nacho looked up, brows furrowing. Troy caught his dark, scrutinizing gaze, and added: 

“...They got the workers cornered—civvies. Yeah. _I don’t know_—call Gat. _What—?” _Troy was carefully yanking jeans up his legs, trying not to bend at the waist, “yeah—yeah _he’s with me_, why…? _OK_,” he shook his head, switching the phone to his other shoulder. “Shit, man, _whatever. _We’ll be down in a minute.” 

He clapped the phone shut, stuffing it into his back pocket as he was threading his belt through the loops, situating the gun clip. 

“Julius’s on his way,” Troy told him quickly, “he’s sendin’ our boys ahead now to rough ‘em up; there ain’t many Saints so, it’ll be close. We’re gonna’ meet him at the church and _sweep the place_—the three of us.” 

“Me?”

“_Yes,_ _you_.” Troy snipped, “You know your way around, right? Know these people?” 

A hesitant nod followed.

“Yeah I _figured.” _He continued, tightening the buckle before holstering his gun. “If there’s somethin’ I should _know about_, now would be _the_ _time.” _

“I know it sounds _bad, _but—“ 

“Nacho, I don’t _give a fuck, _OK?” He retorted over his shoulder, “You’re in a _gang; _there’s still a fuckin’ _pecking order_ and you’re gonna’ _do what I say_. Got it?” 

Expression hardening, Nacho watched him shrug into his leather jacket, wincing through clenched teeth. He nodded, eventually, when Troy‘s sudden, confrontational gaze demanded a reply. 

“‘Kay—_fantastic_,” the blonde grumbled, but curbed the sharpness in his voice with a tired sigh, “_now..._whattaya got for me?”

“The Carnales smuggle drugs through these docks. Out, not in—they’re made on the island. The guy that...cut you up, I seen him there; _el capataz _was his _uncle_, or something.”

“Back up—_how?”_

“I work there, soy _estibador_,” Nacho said, flustered, “But I’m not in the union—there’s a few others _like me _that work under the table. We moved shit like this, snuck into parcels, did the heavy work, in exchange for them ignoring our paperwork. It’s so, if they get _caught, we_ take the fall.” 

Troy stood, _a little rattled, _in the center of his living room, glaring into space. 

_Jesus Christ. _

“...That’s how you knew where the lab was?” He asked, squinting, and Nacho nodded again. “But—wait a minute, I thought you _lost_ your job? You worked in _Athos?_” 

“I _did,” _he clarified, “three weeks ago, when you and Julius saved _my life_, I was on my way to _work_. I got hurt and couldn’t work that night, so they _fire me_. But, I’m _healed now_, _y lo intenté recuperar mi trabajo_ and they agreed—_esta noche iba_ and _all this happened—“ _

“Nacho—_hey, _slow down,” Troy calmed, extending a hand, “...take it _down a notch_, OK? I’m trying to _follow_. How far up’s this go? Do Carnales own the entire port?”

“No. They bribe the management to stay quiet while their own guys—some union, others like my job—move contraband.”

“They blackmailed you? You and others?” 

“_Yea_,” he said, rather dejectedly, “but I was never _with them_, OK? Most of us aren’t.Far’s I know, they don’t have a member on the port authority exec board anymore, now—the uh, el _capataz_,” he searched for the words, “‘_Director de Operaciones’_—_foreman_! The _foreman, _he was _Carnales_, but his assistant _isn’t_—he’ll _listen_, if he’s still alive.” 

Troy nodded, bluntly, as he was easing down onto the couch to put his socks on. 

_Ben King could very easily install one of his businessmen to take his place. _

“If we kill all the Carnales we can _maybe_ make a deal with them to give them _Saints_ protection instead. We would have _all Saints Row.” _

“We ain’t cookin’ bunk to ship out, though, Nacho—a’ite? Julius ain’t keen on the _drug trade_, it’ll never fly with him. This goes to the _top; _there’s no guarantee we can do _shit.” _

“No—_no drugs_. Trust me, if they could avoid moving hot cargo for _just_ protection—maybe some Saints employees? They’ll do it. They don’t want the drugs any more than we do. These docks don’t _do well _because it’s the only port _not_ warm-water in Stilwater; we’re out of work in winter when the Lake _freezes. _We just move _cargo_; it ain’t big like the one in southside.” 

“No promises, a’ite?” Troy shook his head, standing in mismatched socks. “All’s I care about is takin’ out as many of their guys as possible. If Carnales take a hit to their cash flow on this side of town? A _bonus_.” Troy found his boots beside the couch, “I’ll talk to Julius, regardless. But first thing’s first: we secure the wharf. And, fair warning? The whole place might go _tits up _after this—no guarantee the VK won’t _win,” yeah, _“...but we’ll get the crew out alive, if we can.” 

Pulling a ball cap down over his eyes, he zipped up his jacket, hand still cupped over his injury. Keys in hand, he took Nacho by the shoulder and walked him toward the door, but stopped. 

“Wait—you’re fuckin’ _drenched.” _

“There’s no _time, _güero, we have to _go—“_

Shaking his head, irritably, he grabbed a hooded sweatshirt off the closet doorknob.

“Here—you’ll catch _pneumonia_. And put the _hood up,_” he instructed, throwing it at him. “Bandana on the face again, ‘kay? Yeah, I saw the _news, El Bandido_, they’re lookin’ for your ass after that _stunt_.” 

Nacho chewed his lip, but did as he asked, yanking his soaked shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor with a wet _slap. _Pulling the hooded one on instead, _greeted to dry warmth_, he flipped the hood over his hair and obscured his face. Troy was pocketing more bullets from a shelf drawer, before turning to him hastily again. “Let’s hurry. You got ammo?” 

Nodding, Nacho draped the paisley bandana over his nose, tying it off as Troy opened the front door. 

Thunder crashed overhead, the occasional streak of lightning strobing as he locked up. They rushed down the slick cement stairs into the pouring rain—coming to the purple _Vegas _in the wake of another flash_. _Troy climbed in, grunting as he stepped over the rollbar, reaching across with a clenched jaw to unlock the passenger side. 

Sitting down, Nacho breathed, visibly trembling from adrenaline and cold, rubbing his arms for friction, tucking his hands beneath his armpits. Troy turned the key, the engine roaring through the rain, backing out of the lot. 

Battering the windshield, the downpour cascaded in waves, howling wind sending it sideways as he sped down the streets, concentrating. Nearing the church, its upper stained glass windows glowed warm in the blackened night, a single hint of someone awake along a block of darkened buildings. He parked in his usual spot on the curb, scanning graffitied, hallowed walls for Julius’ silhouette, but only finding wailing forms of stone angels in the cemetery. Digging in his pocket, he retrieved his phone, quickly dialing. 

Nacho’s steady gaze hovered on him, and he blinked thoughtfully, forehead creasing with some worry. 

“We’re out front,” Troy said, raising his eyebrows as he craned to see, “‘kay—_hurry_.” 

Hanging up, he scratched his temple under the ball cap, sending a rogue curl squirming out from beneath the brim. 

“...Are _you OK?_” 

Troy only partly heard him, not registering the question at first, but he turned his head—meeting somber eyes. A little unbalanced by his expression, he shrugged it off, nodding several times as he returned his attention to the stairs.

“Yeah, man,” he replied, casually. “They patched me up. It sucks, but I’ll live.” 

“You don’t look so good.” 

“Yeah that’s the uh—_the meds_; I get a lot of uh..._side-effects_. Beats _hurtin’_, though, so,” he sniffed, bouncing his knee as he waited. “_Y’know.” _

“I’m sorry I didn’t…” he started, but rephrased. “...I didn’t want to _bother you_. Some things happened. Been _busy_.” 

“Yeah—_whatever_, that’s _your business_,” Troy dismissed, curtly. “Get a new phone, pronto. Have to be able to reach you for shit _like this_.” 

Nacho hung his head, despondently, saying nothing as he let his hands rest in his lap. 

Julius’ figure soon moved out from behind wooden doors, lifting his collar to the rain, his own boots sloshing in the runoff as he quickly ran to the car. 

“Move over,” Troy told Nacho, and he scooted closer to him, Julius opening the passenger door and climbing in. 

“What the hell—?” He murmured, curiously, stepping over the rollbar. 

“Just _get in_, man. Where’s Johnny?” 

“Couldn’t reach him.” He said as he sat down, leather of his soaked coat creaking, all of them dripping on the seats under the console light. “We can do this ourselves.” 

“_What_?” Troy scoffed, “No, no—” He glanced at Nacho, clenching his jaw. 

“Troy, _you worry too much_.” Julius assured, damp cheekbones gleaming under the cab light, his eyes cold where his voice was warm. He nudged Nacho with an elbow, “The kid’ll _be fine. _Won’t you, playa?” 

Nacho gave a hesitant nod in response, pressing his back to the seat as Julius shut his door.

Troy shifted, grumpily, fierce eyes set ahead on the road as they drove for Athos Bay. 

Water splashed the doors, occasionally completely covering the windshield, Troy grunting as he leaned forward to see. 

“The storm’s _bad_,” He muttered to his passengers, eyes scanning the flooding streets and rapid water pouring down, “flash flood, for sure.” 

“Poseidon’s on our side against _old Athos,_ then,” Julius commented, through a smirk, “the heat won’t come down on our heads prematurely if the bridge closes.” 

“Yeah, let's not get our hopes up.” Troy rounded a corner, suddenly swearing as he slowed before coming to a drift of rushing, pooling water in the street. “_Fuck, _we don’t have _time for this.” _

Julius inched forward in his seat, squinting through the windshield with a dip of his chin. 

“Up there,” he said under his breath, “Listen—_gunshots_, I see taillights.”

A strong gust of wind blasted them, the car wobbling against the gale, thunder booming over the water, drowning out the gunfire. 

“_Shit,_ I’m gonna’ have to _park_,” Troy pulled up to the sidewalk, gutters sloshing loudly, “the engine’ll choke if I try to take us through that.” He gestured broadly to the dip in the street—water a lot deeper than it looked, turning the wheel with overlapping hands. 

Julius nodded several times, adjusting his coat flap, SMG looped over his arm on the inside. Loading the banana clip, he glanced at Nacho, whose wide eyes settled on the hardware. 

“Hope you’re strapped, playa.” He told him, as Troy eased into an alleyway, shifting and turning the car off. “Stick by us, though, and you’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah—It’s gonna’ be _rough_,” Troy remarked, as he was reaching for his revolver, opening the chamber, checking, before spinning it shut. “Nacho—where are the captives holed up?” 

“Warehouse #2,” he replied in a quiet voice. “A door to enter on the side. Need a card to get in.” 

“You have one?” 

Nodding, he was taking his VICE9 from his waistband. “Are the other longshoremen armed?” 

“No sé.” 

“_Great_.” He opened the door, wind catching it and him fighting it, immediately pelted in rain. 

Nacho followed, tucking his chin to his chest against the storm, while Julius and Troy kept their hands clamped down on their hats. The three quickly moved down the flooding main road, finding the higher ground of the sidewalk across—pops and cracks of repetitious gunfire growing nearer. 

The river thrashed, violently, levees all but vanished by the water as it rose to the quayside. Ferries moored at the docks bobbed to and fro in the berth, Nacho shaking his head nervously as they sprinted—harbor spotlights bright, blooming rays over the water from the steel overhead catwalks and cranes. 

Approaching, they ducked as they rounded the guardrail and skirted the first warehouse building, graffiti-lined brick shielding them from sideways rain. A series of loading bays lined four separate warehouses spanning two blocks, nestled against the docks themselves. Massive steel containers were stacked along the quayside, half-worked, freed tarps flapping wildly, shoreline eerily silent and devoid of activity. 

The pier, already in a sorry state, swayed with the wind and the swelling waves.

“_Christ—_“ Troy hissed, squinting through the downpour, to the downed forms of _numerous bodies_ dotting the wharf—most of them in orange reflector vests and hard hats. 

“..._Let’s move,_” Julius murmured, lights cascading across his grave expression, hurrying ahead of them both. The stench of gunpowder lingered, and turning, a man clad in red, back turned, caught Julius’ eye. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, he was in his sights—down the barrel of the silver .357 GDHC in his right hand, a single shot and bright flash pierced the air. He crumpled—short, staunch cry muffled by the storm, as Julius jogged past, Nacho hurrying behind while Troy took the rear lookout. 

He turned, gun down, both hands locked and ready on the weapon, but with a clenched jaw he curbed his reflexive training. 

_Don’t blow it. _

Seeing nothing behind, he whirled around at another gunshot—Julius had a man grabbed in a choke-hold, a single flashing shot, and then another—two to the lower spine, dropping him to the cement with an aggressive swing of his arm, before disappearing behind the wall, coat trailing behind. 

_Goddamnit, Julius…!_

Nacho had his gun raised, _aiming as he’d taught him, _and fired several shots into the darkness, his own vision obscured by the rain. Troy hissed between his teeth as he sprinted after them, ducking down behind bollards wound tight with thick rope and cord, their vessels bobbing in the river. 

Two men ran by, sprinting from the pier to the first warehouse—both in _yellow,_ and neither one seeing either of them as they skirted cargo bins. Taking aim, Troy fired, catching the first in the shoulder with a powerful clamber—the second struck in the _head_, a janking motion that sent his neck snapping back, mere seconds after. The second pop _wasn’t his_, and looking to his left, he saw Nacho with hand extended, gun steady, and dark eyes focused. 

They met gazes a moment, adrenaline coursing, somewhat of a smirk creasing Troy’s lips—_for reasons even he didn’t understand. _

_Still a fucking crackshot. _

The Saints called ahead took the east side of the port, their chaotic screams muddying together with that of their enemies—_Vice Kings, Carnales...it made no difference. _He lost track of how many shots fired into the night air, preoccupied with following Nacho to Warehouse #2, taking cover behind trucks and semi-trailers, pressed up against the dock levelers for the morning’s shipments.

As they rounded the corner, Nacho took the lead, and hurried up a cement and steel ramp to a white metal door, lined with cameras and spray paint, held with a pin-pad lock and a card slider. It’d been tried with a crowbar, dents lining the frame, but to no apparent avail. Julius was already there, crouched behind the railing and a rafter, firing into the parking lot—_several bodies already dark blots beyond the spotlights. _

“This is the one?” Julius called over the rain. 

_“¡Sì, momentito!” _

“Get _on it, playa.” _

Nacho worked his soaked wallet from his back pocket while Troy scanned the lot again, before climbing the stairs. Freeing the plastic card, Nacho swiped it in the lock, crouching slightly and pressing the metal keys. 

“Hurry it up, man,” Troy ushered, as he hovered over him, hand making circles in the air. Just as he finished his sentence, a _Carnale_ rounded the corner, hand extended, firing wildly. 

“Down!” Troy barked, throwing an arm over Nacho and shoving him to the ground, Julius dropping just behind them. Bullets ricocheted off the door and building, taking chips of concrete from the stairs inches from Troy’s legs. Prone on the pavement, Troy flung out his wrist over the stairs, sucking in a breath, firing a single fevered shot from his revolver less than a yard away—_blowing a substantial hole in their assailant’s chest and knocking him back, _the boom ringing his ears and stinging a destabilized hand. 

Heart pounding, breath a hot cloud before him in the damp air, he inhaled through dry lips, quickly rolling to his side, attention darting behind him. 

“You two _hit_?” He gasped, but Julius was extending a reassuring hand and resuming his position, Nacho pressed to the door and uncovering his head, chest heaving, but his eyes fastidious. Relieved, Troy pushed himself from the ground, wincing and shaking out his left hand, reaching for Nacho and helping him to his feet with the right. Shoulder to the wall for support, he watched the lot from beneath the brim of his hat, gun extended, while Nacho re-entered the key. 

They both jumped, suddenly, as Julius fired several times into the lot at the opposite end of the platform, cursing under his breath. After a moment, the door buzzed, and Nacho jerked stiff hinges open, weaving inside. Julius waved Troy ahead of him, as he continued to shoot, before backing through the doorway after them. 

Their presence was met by immediate shouts and firing—_Vice Kings, all of them—_from down in the loading bay. They scattered among massive stocked palettes and steel cargo bins, dipping behind shelves stacked to the ceiling. As they fired, bullets whizzed by, striking the lights and the brick wall behind them, raining glass and sparking wires. Troy sprinted, ushering Nacho with him—heads down, matching steps and pace, ducking beneath the railing. They dove behind the metal sheeting covering the walkway, Nacho sliding halfway down the stairs on his stomach beside him.

“I spotted _maybe ten,”_ he panted, Nacho orienting his hands beneath the railing, returning suppressive fire with a clenched jaw, only slightly flinching with each shot. Troy held the revolver close, turning his head to see Julius had run in the opposite direction—crouched behind a bin, catching far more attention than either of them. He signaled him, calmly nodding, before slinging the SMG into his hands, taking pointe and bracing the stock to his shoulder. 

He open-fired, spraying bullets into the warehouse, bulk cargo erupting from the shelves, bullets striking cement and metal echoing into a repetitious, overwhelming assault of noise and flashing. The metallic burning smell lingered, as several cries—sharp, sudden—pierced the air. He tapped the trigger further, lips set in a grim line, laying waves of bullets and advancing down the ramp. Troy took the opportunity to roll over, peeking behind the metal sheeting, supporting his left wrist with his right and taking aim. 

The single shot _cracked—_resonating, sound bouncing through steel and cement, Nacho immediately jerking as the gun fired so close to his head. Troy watched a flash of blood and the waving of an arm, followed by the clambering of several cans as they dragged a shelf down with them. 

Exhaling through his teeth, he glanced right—

“_Shit, _sorry man,” he apologized, hastily, as Nacho had his ear plugged with a finger, glancing at him reproachfully. “C’mon, Jules only has a little left in that clip, where they at?” 

“The _office_,” Nacho managed, shaking his head, ears ringing. Troy nodded several times, re-positioning and getting to his feet, still ducked down, as Julius continued to fire crackling pops into the warehouse, met with more shattering glass and disoriented screaming. Tapping Nacho on the back, he moved past him, “_C’mon—stay behind me!_” 

Nodding, Nacho leaned up, crouched down on the stairs as Troy quickly maneuvered in front, running down the connecting ramp into the warehouse bay, Nacho close behind. Sprinting, Troy kept the gun upright, eyes quickly darting for movement—stepping out behind a cargo container, eyes meeting another’s—

“Shit!” He pivoted back behind the container, yanking Nacho back with him, bullets of a _K6 Krukov _panging off the corner, ricocheting inches away and striking the wall beside them.

Heart pounding, he pressed his back to the icy steel, shoulder-to-shoulder with Nacho as his thoughts raced.

Biting his lip, he huffed rapid breaths through his nose, before cocking the revolver and snapping out a wrist, hooking it around the corner, firing twice, feeling bullets zooming past. 

His shots hit nothing, but the firing paused—their assailant more than likely moving for cover. 

Julius continued to shoot from the other side of the warehouse, gaps in fire stretching longer amounts of time as he attempted to conserve bullets. 

_One bullet left—need a reload. _

However, just as _pistol fire_ rang out again—Julius having switched—a mechanical _slamming_ filled the air, lights cutting into sudden darkness, shrill alarm blaring. 

“What the—?” Troy looked around, orange hazard lights clicking on as the backup generator rumbled, flashing, sending slowly rotating orbs over the walls. 

“_The power’s off,”_ Nacho whispered, scooching closer in the gloom, gun held close. Troy scanned the scaffold ceiling, the crashing of thunder and lightning outside beating down on the building, ravaging the roofing. 

“_Great_,” he whispered back, forehead slick with sweat, heart drumming in his ears. The warehouse was suddenly silent, Julius’ firing included. “I can’t see _shit—” _

“_Give me a boost_,” Nacho suddenly interrupted. “_I go topside and take them out. These containers filled with lumber, I can balance.” _

“_What—_? _You a fuckin’ ninja now?”_ Troy shirked, barely able to see the outline of the other’s face. 

“¡_Vamos, güero!” _He urged, planting a foot against the steel, reaching. “_Help me up!” _

Rolling his lips, Troy didn’t ponder it a second longer, instead tucking his gun under his armpit hurriedly and interlocking his fingers, bending his knees and bracing against the bin. Nacho leaned on his shoulder, stepping down on his hands, Troy lifting—but suddenly straining. 

_A lot fucking heavier than he looked…! _

Using his knee to brace himself, he locked his arms, and Nacho was up the cargo bin, boots scraping the grooved steel as he vanished over the edge, quietly. 

Troy turned, back pressed to the corner again, not even hearing the other’s _footsteps_ overhead, sucking in a breath and holding it. 

A gunshot broke the silence, far closer than expected, startling him as the resulting scream came from only an arm’s length away—the dripping of blood, panicked wincing, before a second shot fired. A man dropped at his feet, blood soaking his back, before two other shots rang out. Nacho’s marksmanship sparked another exchange of hectic shooting, and Troy took the opportunity to swing open the revolver, emptying the shells while his hooked thumb kept the final bullet in place, quickly loading five others into the chamber. 

Clicking it shut, he peeked around the corner, another VK dropping to the reflective poured floor, _shot in the head. _

Troy stepped over the body, sprinting toward the second, yanking the K6 Krukov from his loose hands. Stuffing the revolver back in its holster, he checked the gun—_that’ll work—_ejecting the previous shell.He listened for Julius, across the warehouse, but Nacho fired again—three repetitious shots, another clambering of shelves to the north. The smell of blood was overwhelming, now, metallic, and spun on his heel he raised the assault rifle into view. 

_Didn’t help shit, though, in the dark. _

Catching fluorescent _yellow _movement, he fired—flashing blinding in the dark, shattering glass and liquid, the sound of a metal drum piercing. Blood or oil spilled out over the floor, _unable to tell which. _Something soft hit the ground with some heavy breathing, bordering sobs—frantic wincing lost somewhere beyond the shelves. 

Troy raised his eyes, blinking, holding his breath to hear. After a moment, he caught the thumping of metal as Nacho’s boots touched down on the floor, just behind him. 

Troy backed up, pointing the elbow of his hooked arm behind him, Nacho grabbing his shoulder moments later. 

“_Good job,_” he murmured, both of them advancing quietly. “_How many’d you see left?_” 

“_It’s clear, I think.” _He whispered back, gun out in front, hands steady. Glancing at the silhouette of his _pea-shooter_, Troy rolled his lips. 

“_You want the K6?” _

“I don’t know how to _shoot that.” _

_“_You _point_ and _pull the trigger_.”

“_I don’t—“ _

Sudden movement beside them, and Troy pivoted, snapping the rifle to his left, blocking Nacho—but Julius held up his hands, gleam of his silver pistol in the air. 

“..._Easy, _son,” he snorted, an orange beam of light streaking over his face, and his _smirk_. “They’re _dead.” _

“Shit, man,” Troy exhaled, lowering the sights, before turning and squinting through the shelves, eyes finally adjusting, but the alarm _making him a little crazy_. “Nacho—lead the way; we’ll cover you.” 

Nodding, he walked ahead of them both, hurrying down between several aisles of shelves—tipped over, bloodied, astringent mess of chemicals stinging their eyes. Eventually they came to a squared off, stone office room, with a strong metal door and chain-link safety cage around it, light thumping coming from the inside. Two stacked palettes barred the door, held in place with a forklift. 

Troy and Julius spun around, watching the north and south sides of the building, as Nacho climbed into the seat and started the machinery, backing it away from the door, beeping, before jumping out again. Hurrying to the door, he worked the deadbolt, before forcing it open. 

A man screamed, crowbar raised, as Nacho dropped away with hands out—yelling, “_Alto! ¡Soy yo!” _

The stockier man, clad in jeans and a reflector vest, face absorbed in a full beard lowered his arm, dark eyes wide and nervous, before shaking his head. 

“¿Nacho? ¿Se han ido—_vacío_?” 

“_Están muertos, los Carnales y Vice Kings._” Nacho explained, rising slowly, holding the gun away. “Vamos a sacarte de aquí ahora, ¿OK? ¿Hay alguien herido?” 

He looked into the room, eight other men in matching garb, faces sweaty and panicked, each of them shaking their heads. Nacho nodded at them before he dipped out of the room, glancing at Julius. 

“He’s the assistant manager,” Nacho gestured to him, as he approached, crowbar in hand. “Nobody’s hurt.” 

Julius nodded, and shook his hand, briefly, “Looks like you just _got a promotion.” _

“You need to get out of here_,_” He told him, with raised brows and urging words, “The police are on their way; this alarm called the fire department automatically.” 

“He’s right, man,” Troy interjected, eyes on the north door, “We need to go.” 

“You comin'?" 

"No, we'll wait here," he glanced at Nacho reassuringly. "We'll just get shot out there." 

"Will you be alright?” 

“We’ll barricade the door. We never saw you. Right, gentlemen?” They shook their heads from the room, again, faces grave—but honest. Julius nodded, tapping Troy on the shoulder, ushering him and Nacho toward the front. 

“_We’ll be in touch_.” 

Troy hurried to the north door, up another ramp past matching loading bays, climbing the stairs and throwing open the door. The storm caught it, wind and rain more aggressive than ever, and they were greeted to a blackened lot—bodies strewn, a burning car crashed into a cement blockade. 

His breath caught in his throat as his eyes settled, _horrified_, but Julius was pushing past him, keeping his beret secured to his head. 

“Telephone pole’s down,” He told Troy, noting the stifling, unsettling darkness enveloping the entire street. As he turned down the stairs, quickly, several people were running at them—their forms hunched in the rain. 

Troy immediately raised his rifle, aiming, but stayed his hand at the glimmer of purple. 

The other Saints, a dozen of them—one being helped along with a bloodied leg—were tired, soaked, and disheveled, but alive. 

Julius squared his shoulders, dipping his chin, speaking over the rain. 

“Get back to the church—carry what you can. We gave ‘em hell tonight, boys!” Glancing up, sirens wailed, blue and red lights blinding and flashing as a convoy of police cars and SUVs sped toward the docks. 

“_Fuck_,” Troy exclaimed, pushing Nacho toward the pier, “go—go! They’ll surround us!” 

“Let’s move!” Julius shouted, the Saints scattering, hurrying up the steps, half running into the warehouse, the rest following them toward the pier. 

They bolted through the rain, boots full of water, breath burning in their lungs as cars filled the lots, blocking off the street, lights strobing over the warehouses and quayside. Troy kept his head down, lagging behind Nacho and Julius, eyes on the six Saints with them. He counted each, none injured, before quickly throwing his attention over his shoulder, just as two officers were taking cover behind their doors, guns drawn. 

“Hurry up!” He screamed ahead, as they fired, their clumsy shots echoing. Troy hissed between his teeth, bullets scuffing the cement, grabbing the K6 and spraying bullets at them—aiming high, enough for them to dive behind the doors with startled screaming. 

“_What’re you doin’, man? You crazy?”_ A Saint running beside him hollered, grabbing his sleeve. 

“_Shut up and shoot!_” 

He continued to fire, filling the car full of holes, before it clicked empty. The Saint beside him threw out a sideways pistol, firing loosely, successfully keeping them pinned down until the others rounded the warehouse. 

Troy slung the K6 over his shoulder, huffing, _wheeze in his lungs catching up to him,_ sprinting as fast as his legs would move. They hurried along the quay, the river rising to dangerous heights, wind sending swelling waves breaching the coast. It spilled out over the pavement, ankle-depth in some parts, garnering startled shouts from the seven ahead of them, nearly sending a few to the ground. 

Not slowing, his boots splashing, wind and rain whipping at his face, soaked and _freezing, _he looked over his shoulder again as more police were running out into the grass and lot, _flashlights on them, _firing sporadically. 

Missing—_rookies not accounting for the wind_, Troy huffed his _thanks _before looking up, more cars filling the street above the bank, ambulance and fire truck following. 

Julius was helping the Saints up the slippery bank, as they climbed and were over the fence, escaping into the blackened road. He held onto the bollard for support, ushering Nacho and the Saint beside Troy next, both starting up the fence and over. 

“Shit—go, go!” Troy snapped, grabbing Julius as gunshots rang behind them, flashlights on their backs, striking the fence just above them. Ducking down, covering their heads, Julius snatched Troy’s collar and ran out onto the pier, shots panging far _too close for comfort. _

They barreled down the creaking wood, slick, barely keeping their footing as the waves threatened to send them into the black abyss below. 

“_What’re you doing?”_ Troy barked, ducking suddenly at another _pop. _

“There’s a ladder by the levee!” 

“Are you _insane_?” He roared back, sucking in air, “we won’t _make that!” _

Shots boomed behind them, and Troy looked over his shoulder, lights in his eyes—before Julius cried out, knee buckling as his jeans tore away at the calf, ankle rolling and sending him over the edge. He toppled, Troy throwing out his arms and grabbing the strap to his gun, hip slamming into the pier, nearly jerking his arms from the sockets. Water splashed them both, Troy’s head going under a minute, but he forced all of his strength into his core, jerking back. Julius resurfaced, gasping for breath, halfway in the water and slipping, fingers clutched in Troy’s jacket. 

“Hang on!” He barked, straining, globs of wet hair in his eyes as he tried to twist Julius in the water toward him—river threatening to sweep him away. Bullets struck the wood, inches from his side—

_This is it: I’m getting shot—if I’m not hit already…! _

More firing joined, as the flashlights snapped away, Troy whipping the hair from his face to see the crowd of cops dropping with uncoordinated firing. Behind him, the Saints fired from the street, the remaining six that had cut through the warehouse cornering them, shooting into the formation. One by one, they _fell to the pavement_, as a figure shot an officer point-blank, flash punctuating his rallying, _“¡Protegerlos!”_

Turning on his heel, he was fast approaching down the pier with heavy footsteps, gun in hand. 

Nacho slid to the wood beside him, throwing out his hands, grasping Julius’ coat alongside Troy’s struggling. They both heaved, lifting him from the water, Julius turning and managing to get a knee up onto the pier. Coughing, spitting swallowed water, he grabbed both their shoulders as they dragged him to his feet, Troy looping his arm over his neck. 

The remaining six Saints were hurrying up and over the fence, Nacho and Troy crossing to the end of the pier with fevered steps, his feet barely touching, a short jump across choppy water to a ladder up the concrete dam. 

“Can you make that?” Troy yelled into the wind, and Julius winced, nodding, hobbling forward and readying himself. He lept, good leg planting, starting up the ladder with pained hops. 

Troy urged Nacho on next, eyes blinded by more police closing in on the Saints on the coast, exchanging fire. Nacho made the jump with a short grunt, climbing, Troy turning quickly and following. He climbed the slick, icy metal, boot tread barely holding on, relying on his sore, numb fingers, before he tilted his head back to the rain—_needles on his skin, _Nacho extending a hand from streetside. 

Their arms locked, Nacho grabbing his jacket collar, helping him up and over, before Troy dropped to his knees in the soggy grass. 

Gasping, throat dry, lungs stinging, he shook away the dizziness as Nacho pulled him to stand, Troy reaching for Julius again, all of them running into the dark, flooding road, more police in the distance. 

They separated through the buildings, scattered into the alleyways, a hundred paths to sanctuary on 3rd Street. 

“We’ll meet you at the church!” Troy yelled, the others signaling, as he turned a corner into the alleyway, purple _Vegas _waiting. Nacho helped Julius, as he was getting the door open, Troy rounding the other side and climbing in. 

Julius winced from the seat, head lulling back over the headrest as he clutched his leg. Nacho slammed the door, hastily leaning in, eyes scanning the injury. 

“It’s not that bad,” he breathed in relief, eliciting a dry chuckle from Julius. 

“_Familiar_, huh?” 

Troy craned his head, chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath, _spit thick and coppery in his mouth_. “He’s right, Jules, it grazed you; your ankle, though, is probably _fucked.” _

“Let’s get back,” he groaned, readjusting in his seat, “...could really _use a drink._” 

Troy nodded, digging in his pocket for his keys, starting the ignition. 

As he did so, he glanced down, clenching his jaw at the bright, bloody spot staining the soaked white cloth of his midsection, some of the stitches having torn...and—_suddenly feeling it. _

_Great. _

Inching forward, he hid it beneath the drape of his jacket, shifting and pulling forward through the alley, over a short bank, and into the adjacent street. 

All the while, the rain poured endlessly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...!  
This marks the end of the prologue missions to SR1. This chapter is the longest yet, and was quite complicated.  
I absolutely adore writing Julius.  
He could be doing anything, really, and I'd have fun writing him.  
So, I hope you enjoyed it. On to the Carnales missions >8) Now the fun really starts.


	11. Divide Et Impera

The engine revved as Troy took a sharp turn, rounding the corner and stone walls, pulling the muscle car into the sectioned lot just shy of the cemetery. Headlights bright on the slick stone, he quickly killed the ignition, Julius subduing a short grunt between clenched teeth. Patrol cars sped past one street over in the storm—more flooding down the causeway. 

“Let’s get inside,” Troy muttered, watching, eyes scanning pitch darkness and catching movement. The other Saints were stumbling through wet grass, climbing the stairs with aching legs, half-bent in exhaustion and spent breath. He bit his lips, sirens and flashing in his rear-view mirror, a convoy turning the corner. “_Shit—_” He hissed, scrambling to switch off the lights, Julius twisting to see through the back window. 

The three of them quickly ducked down in their seats, Nacho’s eyes wide as the patrols slowed behind them—red and blue lights illuminating everything, sirens screeching.

Troy sucked in a breath, glancing up at the roof of the interior, glimpsing a spotlight. 

“_Fuck_,” he whispered, shortly, heart pounding in his chest, “they’re clockin’_ my fuckin’ car, _man_, we’re cornered._” 

“_Easy,_” Julius murmured, slowly, watching the flashlight bob, before it moved away. His hand found his pistol, bringing it to his chest, glancing at Nacho. Breath stilted, he sunk down lower in the seat, shoulder pressed to the door. “...relax, kid,” Julius told him quietly, meeting his dark eyes. “Ain’t nobody goin’ anywhere.”

“_Julius…_” Troy warned, glancing at the gun in his hand. 

“_Shh_.” He snapped, curtly, listening. 

The cruisers behind them were close enough that Troy could hear the police scanner through their open windows. The cops shone their flashlights and headlights into the yard, the cemetery, and the church walls—searching for stragglers, but Troy couldn’t quite see his mirror to tell if they’d left their cars or not. He squeezed his eyes shut to the sharp ache rippling from his incision, tape peeling off, gaze settling on the two of them.

Julius watched the passenger window, finger hovering on the trigger, his other hand pressed to his bleeding leg—_just another fight to him. _

Nacho stared back, though, their eyes meeting— all of that conviction and adrenaline drained from his freckled face, the same fear he witnessed a month ago lacing the quiver in his brow, _underlining the residual viridity. _

Troy swallowed, hard, lips flattening. His eyes softened, and he gave him a reassuring, subtle nod, left hand finding the handle of the revolver at his belt. 

Julius tracked the beams, before they darted away from the churchyard, some inaudible talking deafened by the rain. As they grew more distant, his brows knitted, and he leaned up slightly—peeking over the edge of the seat. 

Lights gleaming in his black eyes, he squinted beneath low brows, “...three of ‘em,” his thumb slid over the hammer, but didn’t cock it. “...Looks like they’re leavin’.” 

Troy turned, leaning up slightly, as Julius’ shoulders relaxed. He slid back down in the seat, hand raising to smooth over his buzzed hair, injury starting to wear on his nerves. The three patrols resumed, lights still cascading, continuing down the street and turning the corner around the church, out of sight. 

“...’Kay, yeah,” Troy began, mordantly, attempting to regulate his own palpitations. “Think we can maybe—y’know, _get inside, already_?” 

Julius snorted, pushing himself up, Nacho taking his elbow. 

Limping, arm propped on Nacho’s shoulder instead of _draped, _they hurried through the rain to the churchyard, Troy hooking Julius’ other arm over his neck to aid him up the stairs. 

Pushing open the heavy doors, walking around the stone hall divider, they raised their heads to pointed guns and wide eyes—lowering, once the other Saints recognized them. 

A young man approached and helped Julius, hobbling to the statue, front doors shutting with a mighty, creaking bellow behind them. 

Another young Saint, all of his curly hair soaked and draping in his eyes, struck a match, holding it low to a hole in a charred oil drum barrel. Some old beer boxes ignited, smoking with treated cardboard, as a meager flame took hold. The fire was welcome, flickering, warm shadows splaying over stone and slumped bodies donned in drenched purple. Troy scanned each of their faces, injured Saint sitting with his leg propped on a milk crate, wrapped in a bandana tourniquet, others already popping bottle caps to drink the edge away. 

Eyes returning to Julius, he was being led through the nave to the sanctuary—his makeshift office. Troy lifted his hand and tapped Nacho’s arm, gesturing they follow. The two of them, in the silence, barely met the gazes of the others, despite their lingering eyes on the newcomer—and his upright posture—trailing behind. 

Seated on his desk, swollen, bruised ankle in a bucket of steaming water, Julius pulled his arms from his soaked coat, the Saint—nurse in training—kneeling beside him, carefully dabbing iodine around the wound. 

Troy glanced at the open medical kit, a curved needle and forceps soaking in alcohol, spool of thread beside it, immediately grimacing. Julius poured himself a bourbon in a sweating glass, taking the first shot in a gulp, forehead wrinkling, before pouring the second. 

After a heavy sigh, he tilted his head, raising his eyes to the both of them. 

“...You did good tonight, playa,” he nodded, Nacho allowing a quiet exhale through his nostrils, hands balled in nervous fists at his sides. “But don’t think I’m done with you, yet. I made a couple calls; the crew’ll be here soon, and then we’ll get started.” 

Troy furrowed his eyebrows, clothes half-dried, hair a mess of dampened gold tendrils, “Whattaya mean?”

“I’m talkin’ about our _next move, _son.” 

“We have the _Row_,” Troy interjected, irritably, “what more _do you want_?” 

“That’s what the _meeting’s for._” He retorted, lowly.

“All of us, everyone in this building—_you included—_almost _bit it tonight, a’ite, _and you want _more? _You never said _anything_ about—“ 

“Did you _really_ think we stoppin’ here? Do you know what’ll _happen_ when they regroup, figure out who’s responsible, who came out on top? They’ll come for us, and they _won’t stop_—we supposed to lie back and wait for that to happen?” 

“_No_, but—!“ 

“You’re _tired_, Troy.” He said, flatly. “We _all are_.” 

Troy listened to the muted conversation in the chapel, the crackling of the fire, the slow bolstering of a dozen young hotheads warily celebrating a _victory_—their first, tangible glimmer of _hope, _or at the least, _capability_. 

Julius winced, before taking another swig of his bourbon, the Saint threading his needle. 

“...No rest for the weary, as they say.” 

“...Yeah,” Troy murmured, bitterly, looking away as the Saint brought gloved fingers to the edge of his wound, pressing the needle.

“Here goes,” he said, quietly, a bit unsure.

“You’ll do fine.” Julius sipped his drink with a short hiss. 

“Yeah, this ain’t no pigskin,” he blinked several times, focusing. “_Little pinch_.” 

Troy shook his head, a light shudder to follow, walking back toward the chapel. 

Nacho watched him go, glancing at Julius, and then to the Saint’s skillful hands as he stitched the wound closed—_a far cry from his own attempt on himself. _

Wandering into the hall, Troy lowered to sit on the stone base of the collapsed stairwell, reaching for his cigarettes. He pulled a soaked pack from his back pocket, flipping open the cardboard top. They were more than saturated, _completely ruined_, and with an exasperated huff he leaned his elbows on his knees, letting his head hang. 

His hair dripped, specks of water forming small puddles on the stone, face flushing and leather jacket sticking to his tacky skin. His lids were heavy, vision hazy, starting to feel the pain pooling in his limbs. 

“...You’re _bleeding.” _

Troy lifted his head, Nacho standing there, backlit by the flame in the main hall. Realizing his bloodstained shirt was visible, he shifted on the stone, covering it with the flap of his jacket. 

“It’s nothin’ bad,” he dismissed, as Nacho approached him, craning his neck to see. 

“It nothing _good, either,_” he flinched, “You should let him look at it, that’s kind of _a _lot.” He reached for his shoulder, urging him to sit upright so he could see.

“I’m fine,” Troy brushed off, avoiding his gaze, shirking away from his touch. “I basically ticked every box of what the doc said _not to do_, so, what’d ya’ expect?” He tugged at the zipper of his jacket, closing it, glancing up at him. “...didn’t get blood on ya, didja?” 

Nacho looked at his hand, holding it up, clean, Troy nodding quietly. “...Wouldn’t happen to have a smoke on ya’ either, huh?_” _

He shook his head, clumped hair tossing lightly, “I don’t smoke.” 

“Good.” The other replied, gruff. “Don’t start.”

“I can ask somebody.” 

“...No, no.” He sighed tiredly after a moment, “Sorry, man; it’s been a long night." 

“...We really going after them all?” Nacho asked, after a pause, returning to the wall. “_Carnales_?” 

Troy straightened again, pressing his back to the stone, running a hand through his tangled hair and moving it out of his eyes. His forehead was too hot, and his mouth dry, making him chew his lip. 

“...Yeah, I guess everybody’s comin’,” he began, reproachfully, “—all the lieutenants—we’re just gonna’ have a big fuckin’ asscrack-of-dawn _Mass _while half of Stilwater PD, the VK, and _probably_ the Carnales are out for purple _blood _right now, but, _hey.” _He scoffed, irritably. “Speaker phone ain’t _cuttin’_ it anymore, I guess, that would be too _convenient_. Julius’ just gotta’ remind us how much of a fuckin’ _fossil _he is, y’know.” 

Nacho watched him, resisting snickering, lowering weary eyes to the floor. 

“...You ever been?” 

“Huh?” 

“Mass?” He quirked studded brows. “You ever go?”

“Oh, uh..._No,” _Troy replied, awkwardly, immediately uncomfortable. 

“Not religious?” 

“...I—uh,” Normally, he would change the subject, but Nacho’s genial, calm demeanor was absent of any _loaded_ _undertone, _easing him into conversation_._ “...I ain’t a fuckin’ _Catholic, _that’s for sure.” He retorted. “Besides, even if I _was_, I can’t sit through the 11:00 news, let alone four hours of fire and brimstone.” 

Nacho hid a smile, amused, dipping his head and studying his boots. 

“I uh...take it _you_ _been?” _Troy questioned, mirroring his prose, confident enough to ask. 

He nodded, looking up at the dusty rafters and the rib vaults, tracing them to the arches. The blonde raised an eyebrow, following his gaze, cautious, “...You believe in that whole..._uh_, _deal_?” 

Attention settling on the stained glass of a rose window, _murky and forgotten,_ Nacho’s eyes lidded with a twinge of _distaste_, rolling a shoulder. 

“...It’s a little _different_ back home,” he said with some dreariness, clearly underplaying that fact, “...t‘say the least.” 

“Yeah?” Troy’s tone was now innocently curious, lifting his chin. “How so?” 

He opened his mouth to answer, but the parting of the front doors prompted he turn, a myriad of voices all speaking at once in greeting. 

Nacho took a few steps back, looking beyond the wall into the main chapel, some confusion spreading over his face. Troy sighed at one voice in particular, already dominating the others in _every-man friendliness. _

Moving aside, Nacho’s eyes were on Troy as he stood, stepping around the corner with a masked, nuanced _sneer_. 

_Yeah, _Dex was chatting it up, all that feigned interest in his energy and words. He was talking to two others, moderately charismatic—_congratulatory_, clad in a denim jacket and a ball cap to keep the rain off.

“Nice of you to join us,” Troy remarked, stepping into the light of the barrel fire, Nacho glancing up at him, taken aback by his acerbic tone. “Hope we aren’t _interruptin’ anything_.” 

Dex swayed, flicking brown, almond eyes at him over his shoulder, allowing a short scoff. Straightening his back, he swung his arms a little, facing him with a mild smile. 

“Bridge was closed.” He informed, coyly, “They got barricades all up Brighton ‘cause of the flooding, cops are crawlin’ all _over_ downtown.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“_Sorry man_,” he shrugged, lidded eyes on the floor, raising again with a cordial air. “Jules had _you_ there with him though, so _naturally_ I’m sure all was kosher._” _

Troy smirked, wryly, lifting his chin a bit and peering over the younger man’s head to the chapel doors. Dex let his attention fall on Nacho, lingering behind Troy—nodding at him with a charming grin and flash of white teeth. 

“‘Sup man, what’s goin’ on? _¿Cómo estás?_” He stepped forward, hand extended, a brief shake and pat to follow. Nacho awkwardly obliged, confused by his sudden warmth, _given how in their last meeting he was helping beat him to a pulp_. “Heard you were a real _badass_ out there, huh? Where were you hidin’ all that?” 

Nacho shrugged, eyes lowering, as Troy tilted a shoulder and callously blocked Dex’s path. 

“Julius _ain’t done_,” he informed, surly and blunt. “He’ll probably want you headin’ the Carnales.” 

“And you’d be right,” Dex replied,_ breezily,_ dragging his attention back to him. “I’ve done my homework.”

“You’ve done your _ass-kissing_,” Troy corrected, Dex nearly rolling his eyes to another wall, hands balling at his sides. 

“The trick won’t be just _takin’ out their guys_,” he said, smoothly, ignoring him. “Contrary to _other attempts _and what _went down_ tonight. We need to hit their _income, _at its source. We cripple their cash flow and they can’t pay their goons, then we move in and steal their revenue, take over their ties.” 

“Whattaya think _protects the income_, exactly?” Troy asked, flatly. “_Bubble-wrap_?” 

_“Cool it,_ man,” Dex said, incredulously, “I ain’t tryin’ to _steal your thunder; _we’ll _talk about it,_ it’s _all good._” 

“It ain’t _all good,_” Troy muttered, sardonically, “you ain’t got a fuckin’ clue what _you’re doing._” 

“Good thing we got _you around_ then, huh?” He replied, equally flat, tapping him on the arm—_officially checked out of the exchange_—smiling and bringing a hand down on the shoulder of a passing Saint. 

Troy exhaled through his nostrils, shaking his head to himself, turning as he felt Nacho nudge his elbow. 

Julius had his arm hooked over a crutch, pant leg rolled up, square of crisp white gauze covering his wound, neatly taped in place. He stepped up onto the chancel, near the remains of an altar, standing with the statue and the glass of the dilapidated apse to his back—warm safety of the fire casting his shadow. 

“Listen up, people; I got some _serious shit_ to discuss.” He began, voice carrying through hallowed halls, calling the attention of the dozen Saints. They gathered near the fire, nerves loosened. “..._Yeah_, we cleared out the Row. Athos Bay is _ours_, and tonight? We put a hurtin’ on the Carnales _and _the Vice Kings, and every single one of us is still standin’ here to_ talk about it_.” He glanced down at his leg, “_try as they might.” _

Low, murmured chuckling resounded, Troy glancing at Nacho as he watched with stern eyes. 

“But, you think for a _second_ that's gonna _stop 'em_? Unless we wipe _all_ these muthafuckas out, they're gonna keep comin', and they ain't gonna be happy. It ain't gonna be settled until the Carnales, the Rollerz, _and_ the Vice Kings ain't nothin' but a _memory_.” 

Julius turned his eyes to the leftmost side of the crowd. “...Dex, you got the Carnales. Ever since they hooked up with the Colombians, it's like they own this town—and with that drug money rolling in, we can't compete. Be _smart_ how you move against 'em. The Lopez family been runnin' that gang for thirty years. There's a reason they still around.” 

Dex nodded, his time to shine, a solid, confident “_got it,_” his reply. Troy watched him, reeling back a virulent scowl—_you’ve got no idea, kid. _

“Troy, you’re dealing with the Vice Kings.” 

Glancing up, suddenly, Troy furrowed his brows—shaking his head once, _not in the mood. _

“_Not a chance.” _His voice broke the silence, subtle defiance glaringly _out of turn. _

“_Fuck you say_?” Julius demanded, _affronted_, brow set low and garnering the stares of the others. 

Troy met his gaze, level, unflinching, Dex turning around and looking him up and down. 

Even Nacho peered up at him—astonishment in his eyes, but he kept still. 

“Anyone but them.” The blonde answered, dully, unwavering. 

Leaning back on his good leg, Julius pondered, clearly bemused, but he nodded again with that same cold dismissiveness _any time the subject arose_.

“You _scared_ of going against Benjamin King?” 

Troy said nothing, dipping his chin slightly. 

The low murmurs were divided, some in jeer, others silent out of respect—no doubt his credibility _standing trial_ at that moment. Either way, all eyes were on him. 

_Play those games all you want, old man. _

“Man, fuck that!” A voice rang out, crowd turning, wooden doors slamming behind. Johnny marched down the nave, shoulders of his jacket soaked through, wild, frosted hair damp spikes, glasses dotted in rain. 

With a cocky flourish, he straightened his back and squared his shoulders, “_I’ll _take King out_.” _

“Johnny,” Julius started, tone calming, “it’s _not that simple_.” 

“Bullets still _kill muthafuckas_, right?” He asked, with a tilt of his head, eyes bright and challenging. “Doesn't get much _simpler than that._" 

The other Saints, collectively, appeared all in favor of an _actual display of balls and bravado_, but Julius was unmoved, turning his eyes back to Troy. 

_ He knew better. _

“Keep an eye on ya boy.” 

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter, Julius.” Johnny barked back, temper flaring, not even turning a glance his way. 

“Keep an _eye on ya boy.” _Julius repeated, unacknowledging, staring Troy down. 

The blonde, however, couldn’t resist the smirk creeping over his lips as he noticed Johnny swing his arms, pacing in place, clearly aggravated and _wanting everyone around him to know it. _

_Direct it at King, Johnny. _

Nacho watched him too, remembered him, no doubt knowing his reputation by now. Either way, he’d moved closer to Troy, nudging him, prompting his fatigued, and equally _irked _attention. 

_“Why not you?” _

“..._King’s gotta’ go_,” Troy whispered back after a moment, leaning a bit, discreetly. “_Trust me; he’s the guy for the job.” _

Dex spoke up in the lingering silence and disjointed voices, "Well, then...who's got the _Rollerz_?" 

“I do.” 

Nacho raised his eyebrows, all turning as a toned, slender woman exited the sanctuary, head held high, shiny black hair wound in a thick bun. She squared her shoulders in a familiar fashion, clad in leather and padded blue racing pants. He watched her pass the chancel, cool and calm. 

“That’s _Lin_,” Troy murmured to him, noticing his baffled expression. “Johnny’s cousin.” 

_Hadn’t seen her in a while; guess that explained it. The old man be desperate to send her into something so dangerous...but, he knew Lin could handle herself. _

He peered at her thoughtfully as she joined the crowd, Johnny moving to the center, barrel fire to his back, arms extended in disbelief. 

“...The fuck you wearin' _blue for_?" He exclaimed. 

"I asked her to hook up with the Rollerz.” Julius explained, in a level tone, some of his ire tapering off into fatigue. “We don't know much about these fuckers, so I wanted one of us on the inside." 

Nacho watched as the _Midwestern Potato—at it again—_ambled forward, a mischievous spring in his step as he stroked his chin, "I didn't think the Rollerz _pimped hos..._" he so eloquently expressed, smirking. 

She twisted at the waist, arm cocked, _decking him with a placid smack, _sending him stumbling to an outcry of erupting laughter. 

“Any other comments?” She addressed the room, among chuckling and low cheers, Nacho wincing as the idiot pawed at his lip.

“Yeah,” Johnny suggested, helpfully, “when ya punch? Don’t throw your shoulder so much.” 

“Shut up, Johnny.” Her sharp eyes narrowed, voice edged in exasperation. 

“Hey, I’m just sayin’.” He backed away, with a cheeky smile. 

Dex turned a bit, murmuring to the guy next to him, “How come I can’t get away with that shit?” 

“Cuz’ you can’t rock a halterneck.” Troy quipped tiredly, deadpan, Dex spinning around with the most _scathing, confounded glare_, much to the repressed snickering of the Saint beside him. 

"Once we're done here,” Julius continued, directing his attention to Nacho, the others turning to look at him—Dex, Johnny, and Lin mostly unimpressed, but those that were by his side that night looked on in confidence. “Go talk to one of these guys. They'll have something for you to do.” 

Nacho nodded, shortly, Troy bumping him with his elbow. 

“...You want in on the Carnales?” His voice was quiet and teasing, dark circles rimming his sockets. 

Nacho met his eyes, his own suddenly fixed and determined, Troy smirking faintly as he looked up again. “_Yeah, _that’s what I thought.” 

“Alright.” Julius announced, tired of standing, speaking over the crowd and into the chamber. 

“It's our time, now.” He spoke, brow low, eyes fervid. “Let's get this shit started." 

The crowd slackened, the dozen Saints returning their attention to one another, Johnny ducking in and taking two by the shoulders, Dex _making a beeline for the sanctuary_—seeing Julius as he was making his way back, no doubt seeking the comfort of another glass of bourbon. 

Troy tapped Nacho on the arm, gaining his attention, starting for the sanctuary as well—noticing Lin, but she was talking to Johnny. Not wanting to interrupt, _saving it for another time_, he skirted the pulpit into the dim glow of candles again. 

Approaching Julius’ desk, he was seated in his chair, reclining, rubbing his forehead with one hand, his other rested on the rim of the glass. 

_Called it. _

“We’re headin’ out, man.” Troy began. 

“Yeah, fine.” Julius waved away, quirking a brow at him reproachfully. “...Think we need to have a _chat, _son_.” _

“Yeah..._later_,” Troy nodded, petulant. “I get it. Take _care of yourself_.” 

Dex looked on with folded arms, leaned against the boarded up window, _reveling in that, no doubt._ Troy glanced at them both, before stuffing his hands in his pockets, backing out of the room with a sashay. 

“Let’s _get outta’ here_, man.” Troy muttered to Nacho, bitterly, ducking back out of the office almost as quickly as he’d entered, Nacho switching footing and following him. 

They quickly left the church, out in the rain and the wind, Troy reaching for his keys as he was blasted in the storm and the wet chill again—whipping his hair in his face. Opening the door to his _Vegas, _nodding to the other side, he searched the empty streets. _All the racket emanated from the south, _ambulance wailing, blue and red lights blooming in the sky. 

With a hollow stare, he rolled a shoulder, situating his jacket, before climbing into the chilled seat over the rollbar, pushing _his new assault rifle_ aside. 

They drove in silence, Troy occasionally veering to avoid hydroplaning, turning past dark roads and eerily absent houses—downed power lines blanketing half the district in a looming, dingy silence. Spotting the duplex, he pulled up to the curb with a low rumble of the engine, a strong gust rattling the windows, benches overturned in the park across the street. Idling, Troy turned the key, car quieting in the rain. 

They sat parked in front of Nacho’s new house, windows blackened, ornamental trees bordering the sidewalks bent, their errant branches splayed over the yards and driveways. 

“...You should hide your car.” Nacho suggested, after a long pause of sitting there, thumbs pulling the cuffs of the sweatshirt over cold hands.“...You can leave it here in the garage, if you want. Nobody’ll find it.” 

Sighing, slowly, Troy stared ahead at the black street, cluttered in leaves with a frazzled mind, heaviness settling into his limbs. He let his eyes drift closed, a second, to subdue the burning. 

“..._Güero_?” 

He jerked, sucking in a breath as Nacho squeezed his arm. Glancing at him, eyes a bit panicked, Nacho peered back through his lashes, “You _OK_?” 

“..._What?_” He breathed, startled. 

“You_ nodded off._” He answered, watching him closely. “You’re _tired_.” 

_“W…” _His eyes eventually focused on his own reflection in the fogged windshield, slumped back in the seat, fingers numb with cold. “..._Shit_,” he muttered, unsteady, as he pushed his sore body upright. 

Pressing his face into his hands, he rubbed his cheeks, trying to rouse himself. “_Yeah_, sorry man. _Uh_,” he shifted, stomach aching, shaking the daze away. “...what—uh, _what were you sayin’?” _

“Your car.” Nacho repeated, tacitly. “...Should leave it with me tonight.” 

“...You don’t mind?”

“‘Course not.” 

“..._’kay_,” he nodded, softly. 

He could’ve sat there all night, staring at nothing, but he forced himself to open the door. 

Stepping out onto the curb, rain beating down on him—_having long lost his hat_—he tilted his head back, peering up at the falling droplets. The storm was slowing, trees swaying in low, howling wind, gray clouds plumes in the moonlight. All of Stilwater had been washed clean, even if it was just for an evening, taking the blood in the gutters with it. 

He inhaled deeply, savoring the rare pause petrichor evoked from him, blinking the mist from tired, burning eyes. _The oxy was wearing off_, leaving him to contend with all the pain and drowning melancholy that entailed. 

Nacho stepped around the car, blinking at him thoughtfully, before Troy noticed him there and dragged himself to the present again. 

Handing him the keys, he eventually raised brown eyes to his. 

“...Storm’s kinda’ _nice_, huh?” He found himself asking, in a dull tone. Nacho nodded, leaning against the car, working a key off the ring and handing it back. 

“Hm...?”

“Your house key,_” _he answered. “Gonna’ need that.” 

“...Oh,” Troy understood after a moment, delayed, pocketing it. “No—_yeah_. Thanks.” 

Nacho tucked the remaining keys, still in-hand, into the front pocket of the borrowed sweatshirt. Stillness lingering, Troy’s hand rose to his injury, feeling an urge to _speak,_ summoning some clarity.

“You, uh...I feel like I gotta’, um..._say somethin’_, a minute.” 

Nacho listened, openly considerate, lifting his brows. “Sure.”

“...I—just, uh..._That was a close call,_ on the pier. Shit got _heavy_.” He murmured, hoarsely. “...You really saved our asses. Julius didn’t say _shit_, and everybody around back there, I uh—I didn’t want to _bring it up_, but, I’m tellin’ you _now_, you ‘n me...we came _real close_, man. Seriously.” 

Nacho shrugged, modestly, watching the rain dotting the sidewalk. 

“...You did the same for me.”

A somewhat pained look crossed Troy’s face, tilting a shoulder toward him. 

“Nacho…” He started, voice hanging. “I feel like you still got the _wrong idea, OK_—we've been _through this. _It’s not that—it wasn’t that _big of a thing_, a’ite? We were just…” his lips stayed parted, soundless, fumbling uncooperative words, “..._there_, that night. That’s_ it_; it ain’t the _same thing _as what _you did here_. You don’t owe us _shit. _Not _me,_ not _Julius.”_

He spread his hands, at his sides, as if that finished his point. Watching droplets snake down the window of his car, he released an awkward breath he hadn’t even realized he held. 

“Could’a let me die.” Nacho murmured, despondent. 

“_What? No—! No,_ I _just_—I couldn’t _let…_I couldn’t let him _shoot you, _Nacho, _c’mon_.” Troy shook his head, voice gaining a cracking pitch, but sinking low again. “I seen a lotta’ people..._go_, that way. A lot of the time, ‘cuz of _me,_” he sniffed, _the memory of the missing woman’s face—her head rolled forward, bloody hair a curtain—flashed in his mind,_ _with all the fire and the smoke._

“And...ah...y’know _how that is. N-now_. It gets...real _fuckin’ old,” _he chewed his lip, looking at anything other than him. “So, I shot _the fucker first._ And I’d _do it again_.” 

After a moment of listening to the rain, of steeling his heart and retreating into the fortifications of aggression, he gained the courage to look at the other. With a languid roll of his shoulders, “No fuckin’ _heroics. _That’s all it was.” 

_Murder. _

He expected Nacho to realize his fraudulence_, _for disappointment and _a slice of wisdom_ to replace that _naïve respect_ he seemed to hold for him. The idea of such continuous misconceptions coming to an end brought as much sting as it did _relief. _

His breath paused, however, hovering in his throat as he was met with a subtle _smile, _instead—startlingly warm. That jaunty, mellow rasp peppered his voice, as always. 

“Ain’t that _enough_, though?” 

Troy’s gaze wavered, forehead creasing in confusion, silence demanding clarification from his tranquil expression. Nacho squinched an eye at him, _sincere_, a short shrug to follow. 

“I’m just sayin’, the way I see it? Could’a walked—most _would_, and _do,_ but, you stepped up_—_something told you it wasn’t my time_, _and you _agreed.” _He leaned, a bit, unexpectedly _consoling_. “—And I’m _alive _‘cause of it. No ‘_heroics’, _or _whatever; _it’s a lot better than that.” He raised his chin, blinking. 

“...You _gave a shit_.You _listened_. For me, _s’enough.” _

He continued to stare at him, quietly, words sinking in, as the tension in his arms slowly released. Grunting—smirking, sluggishly—he dipped his head to rub sore eyes.

“Your loyalty’s _wasted, _Nacho.” 

“It’s mine to _give_,” he replied, eyes settling calmly, _kindly_ on his flushed face, lips flattening. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, massaging his thumb into the socket, the weighted silence hovered, before he eventually relented a calmer sigh. 

“...I’m...headin’ _home_, man.” He resigned, tiredly, tucking icy fingers into his pockets and sauntering down the sidewalk. Nacho looked on, concern returning, leaning away from the car. 

“...You can crash _here_ if you want,” He offered, examining his unsteady walk. “Place is clean, fridge is kinda’ _scarce_, but...”

Troy paused, considering, but shook his head.

“..._Nah_,” he blinked, sullenly. “...I need to get home.” 

“Wan’ me to _drive you_, at least?” 

He shook his head again, without looking up. “Think the walk’ll do me some good.” 

“Don’t get _busted_.” 

“_Psh,” _he scoffed, before interrupting himself. “_Oh_, uh, _hey_—_stay in touch_, a’ite?” He asked over his slouched shoulder, meandering in place. “Get a _new phone_, there can’t be any more _off-the-radar _shit. We’ve got work to do, now; Dex can’t do it alone, contrary to what the _squirrely shit_’ll have you _believe_. I need you _ready,_ for anything. I’ve been outta’ the game a long time with these guys, so. We don’t know what to expect.”

Nacho squinted, rain streaking over his lids, but he nodded, resolute. 

Troy clicked his tongue, turning. 

As he stepped down the sidewalk, head low, Nacho summoned his voice again. 

“Güero!” 

Stopping in place, he looked back again, puzzled. 

_He didn’t even know what that meant. Could be answering to ‘hey, shithead!’ for all he knew. _

__

Nacho blinked, hesitant, but tilted his head. “...We got a race comin’ up this weekend.” His tone was slightly more reserved, but lighter. “Don’t forget.” 

__

Troy sniffed again, nose running, a sullen smile his acknowledgement. Turning a final time, he walked, wet boots sloshing as he rounded the corner. 

__

Those couple blocks blurred into the steps up to his door, porch lights hazy bubbles, one after another, in a line down the row of darkened houses. The lake thrashed Mission Beach’s coast, the sound of rolling water just beyond the lot. With stooped shoulders, he let his forehead press to his front door with a quiet _thump, _eyes drooping closed, hand digging in his pocket for the key. 

__

Realizing it was the _wrong pocket, _he found it, slipping it into the lock—pushing the door open, the entire process requiring more strength than anticipated. 

__

The blast of cold air froze him further, as he shrugged out of his waterlogged jacket, working the soggy boots from soggier socks, leaving it all there at his threshold—Nacho’s half-dried shirt still a puddle of rust-colored cloth on his floor. 

__

The TV was static, _ignoring it, _plucking the bottle of pills from his coffee table, replacing them with his gun, phone, wallet—_now soaked_, and key, immediately ducking toward the kitchen. Stepping over the exposed tack-strip, he passed the nearly-full Dutch oven catching the leak, and a blinking digital clock set to 12:01 over his stove—_another inconvenience. _He went right for his closet of a bathroom, stepping out of his sopping jeans, _smelled like the lake, _praying for hot water as he turned the dial. 

__

Relieved to see steam as the shower sputtered, he lifted the corner of his shirt, examining his incision beneath the dim light. Wincing, he pulled the wet tape gently away from his skin—saturated in rain and _serosanguinous drainage_. Macerated, the wound’s edges swelled, his abdomen streaked in dried and re-hydrated blood, but the incision had only pulled apart slightly. 

__

_Nasty. _

__

Sighing, he rubbed his eyes again, steam stinging them, starting to warm. His thumb worked the bottle, popping the cap, tapping it to his palm. He brought a pill to his lips as he turned for the shower, hooked in pruney fingers, but he paused mid-step. 

__

Staring at the wall a moment, and the peeling wallpaper, he lowered his hand, an unnerved discomfort seizing him. That unease manifested as _anger_ in his fatigue, and he jerked up the toilet lid, dumping the bottle. With a clumsy hand, he pumped the handle a few times, watching all of the pills flush with a gurgle of the pipes. 

__

As the toilet refilled, more rushing water alongside the shower, he turned with a sharp twist and hurled the empty bottle into the kitchen, a strangled, frustrated, _exhausted_ _scream_ echoing in the bare-bones structure he called _home for two years. _

__

It bounced, maybe _busting, _hitting off a counter top and clattering somewhere. 

__

Hand raking through his hair, he drifted back into the doorway, shoulder catching on the frame, propping against it. The cold porcelain sink-top touched his back, and jumping, a bit, he turned and caught sight of even more bottles splayed out, in no particular order, too big to fit in the medicine cabinet. 

__

Dread welled, the lurking, sudden sense of impending _doom_ sickening his stomach, draining the blood from his face. He crouched and opened the cabinet beneath the sink, dragging out toiletries, and instead arranging each of those bulky prescriptions onto a shelf of chipped paint and old wood, out of sight. 

__

Closing it, with a light thump, he backed up to the wall, shoulder blades touching the towel rack, scanning the cleared, _normal_ sink-top and the fogged mirror with a pounding heartbeat. 

__

_Better—that’s a little better. _

__

Exhaling, he slowed his breathing, rubbing his eyes a final time. He made his way to the shower, stripping down and stepping into tepid water, sinking to the floor beneath the spray—watching all the blood run off of him. 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know this one's a lot of chat, but, it needed to happen.  
Troy's always had a bad time, but, he's got some shit brewing on the horizon.
> 
> I promised myself that this chapter was going to be something lighthearted to offset the last one, but, a sudden flash of inspiration and a random line written prompted me to follow through with the game and redirect some of my plans. This is part of the reason why this took so long to write (other than the holidays,) despite it being fairly short and uneventful, mostly because I had to start setting up the side-plots I've written, separate from the game's narrative. I had to take a lot of breaks, because it gets pretty sad. 
> 
> Anyway, hopefully this was enjoyed. More to come.


	12. First-Move Advantage

The low rumble of his phone vibrating brought feeling to his arms again, stirring him from the deep, motionless sleep indica always blanketed him in. It buzzed against the pressboard and glass of his coffee table, rattling a ballpoint pen to roll. Barely tilting his head, air-dried hair a mess of tangled coils over the couch cushion, his hand absently fumbled for it, grasping at open air, knuckles brushing an ashtray. 

Flipping it open, he didn’t even check the number, pressing a button and bringing it to his cheek. 

Licking dry lips, he swallowed, attempting to summon his voice, “..._Hello?” _

“_Buenas, güero, soy yo…” _there was a slight pause, and a softened chuckle, “_Pareces sueño—¿te desperté?”_

Troy pressed his thumb into his eye socket, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he listened—_cluelessly_, some static interference lacing the other’s quiet voice. He replied, in a low, hoarse hum. “...Thought your phone shit the bed.” 

“_Put it in some rice.” _

“...Wha—?” 

“_I woke you?” _

“...No,” he croaked, still not opening his eyes. 

“_You lying?” _

“...Wh—..._yeah,” _he eventually mumbled, sleepily. Silent for the better part of the minute, his thoughts organized enough to form a question. “..._What-now_ about _rice_?” 

_“Nothing,” _Nacho answered, amused and jovial, speaking softer and curbing his volume. “_Forget it.”_

_“..._Whatcha’ need, then?” 

“_Dex called. He wants to meet with me._” 

“...Oh, goody_._” Troy grumbled, hand smoothing up to his forehead, nails scratching at his scalp. “...What’s he want?” 

“_No sé—él no dijo.” _

“...There’s some _‘no’_ in there, so I take it _you dunno’_?” 

“_Sí,” _there was a brief hesitation, before he continued. “_Should I come get you?” _

_“..._He wanna’ see me, too?_” _Troy asked, confused. 

“_No, pero...I figure you wanna’ hear what he has to say.” _

_“Ha—_Not on your_ fuckin’ life.” _

Nacho’s subdued snickering could be heard on the other end, prompting Troy to realize his vitriol. “Uh..._sorry_—let _that slip_,” he muttered, “it’s _early_.” 

_“It’s 1:00.” _

_“..._Early for _me.” _

_“So’s that a ‘no’?” _

Groaning, to himself, he scrubbed his fingers through his hair until they got stuck. “..._no, no,_” he drawled eventually, _“..._Shouldn't be subjected to his _master plans_ alone.” 

_“Lo aprecio; I’ll come get you, then.” _

About to ask why, he remembered his car, nodding to himself after a moment’s pause. “...yeah, OK._” _

_“You need a bit?” _

_“..._Nah_,” _he moved the receiver away from his mouth to cough, clearing his throat. “..._I’m up_. Just uh…_yeah_._”_ Finally opening his eyes, dull light of the sun through his canvas curtains brighter than expected in the muted tones of the room, “...come by whenever. I’ll be ready.” 

“_Está bien—twenty minutes, llegaré pronto.” _

“...’Kay,” he blinked the sleep from his eyes. 

The call disconnected after a moment, screen changing color in his peripherals. 

A long exhale followed, as he rolled his lips and worked his jaw, mouth dry and body heavy—letting his hand and phone drop to his chest. 

Lying there, his eyes drooped closed again, but he fended off drifting back to sleep—_lest he have to answer the door in his underwear again. _

His injury throbbed, mildly, and it showed on his brow, while his consciousness ebbed and cleared. With another deep breath, he opened his eyes—more adjusted this time, the haze of a long sleep leaving. 

With a grunt, he rolled over, setting his phone back on the coffee table. Easing upright, he stretched, peering down at his injury—the gauze clean, and taped securely. Touching it, he could feel the fibers beneath sticking to the wound, but it felt dry. Relieved, he pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his eye with his palm, wandering into the kitchen and the bathroom. 

He almost tripped over half-empty shampoo bottles and a hairdryer he never used, swearing into a dark bathroom, crumpling down onto the toilet seat. Folding his leg, bringing his foot and stubbed toe into view, he squinted at it—before his eyes hovered on the empty countertop, bathed in the residual sunlight seeping from the kitchen. 

Recalling, his mind still fuzzy from the night before, he sighed as he set his foot back down, slumping there. 

He was inevitably opening the cabinet, taking each bottle of rattling pills out and setting them back where they belonged. Flipping the switch, fluorescent light flickering, he contemplated the inconveniences of his tantrums with an embarrassed, subdued glimpse at himself in the mirror. Opening each bottle, he shook out his daily assortment of multicolored tablets and swallowed them with a cupped handful of tap water. 

Turning off the faucet, he returned his eyes to the bags circling his sockets—_not quite as dark as they could be—_deciding they demanded an ibuprofen or two. 

He dug a comb from the side drawer, trying to talk himself awake as he ran it through his knotted tresses, only to realize it was doing more harm than good. 

Detangled, it was left frizzy and golden—_like some kind of fugly toy dog, or whatever_. With a defeated, blank look, he hung his head, turning the tap on again, dunking his head under the spigot. 

He combed soaked hair down, instead, flat to his head and out of his eyes—catching a semblance of who he once was in the mirror. Smoothing a hand over his goatee, he ran it up his scruffy jaw, scratching beneath his ear, having neglected shaving since he left the hospital. 

_Just get it over with. _

With a tired exhale, he opened the drawer again, rummaging for a cheap razor, starting to work shaping his beard into something presentable. 

Admittedly, he felt a little better afterward—brushing his teeth and wandering back into the kitchen with a yawn, patting his face dry with a hand towel. He got dressed, jeans and a tank top to combat the heat, clasping his watch around his right wrist.

Nacho was _late_, much later than he said he would be.

_Mexican manners, _he mused—that much he didknow. His tardiness worked in his favor, giving him time to pick up the clothes from the night before, easing him awake slower. By the time he heard the revving of the hemi engine down the street, pulling into the parking lot with a clean rumble, twenty minutes had turned into over an hour. 

_Which meant Dex was waiting, too. _

Troy shook his head to himself, amused, as he sat on the corner of his couch, tying his canvas high top sneakers. When a knock on the door came, he called across his living room, “it’s open!”

The door let in heat and sunlight, Nacho huffing to himself, nodding at him politely. He quickly turned around and closed it behind him, not wanting to let the cool air out. 

“Hey,” Troy greeted, Nacho smirking and carrying a few things, a paper bag in hand. 

He tucked his hair behind his ear, crossing the room and taking the borrowed, folded purple flannel out from beneath his arm, handing it to him. 

“...I _washed it,_” he quickly assured. 

Troy glanced at him, smiling tiredly, “Got your washer and dryer, huh?” He asked, setting it down on the coffee table. Nacho nodded, opening the paper bag, bringing out a warm wrapped sandwich and holding it out to him. Troy paused, a little startled, before hesitantly taking it. 

“Uh..._thanks, _man,” he said, scratching his head. Upon smelling it, he realized just how hungry he was, still groggy and sore from the night before, unsure of when he _last ate. _Sighing, he started to peel the paper away, lost in the methodical motion. Another few seconds passed, however, before he glanced up at him hurriedly. “Oh—_sorry_, uh—c’mere, sittdown,” he gestured beside him on the couch, pushing the table away a bit. 

Nacho looked at the floor, awkwardly stepping around the table and coming to sit on the other end, setting the bag between them and digging for his own sandwich. 

Taking a bite—_egg and cheese, can’t go wrong there—_Troy looked at him as he quietly did the same. He’d cleaned himself up some, his wiry, patchy beard tidied, hair washed and combed and all the sun caught in it. His new clothes were still maddeningly _earth-toned_, though—his T-shirt, cargo shorts and _tire flip-flops_ all burnt sienna, rust, and Southwestern patterns. 

Troy snorted, to himself, shaking his head and taking another bite. 

“...How’s your, um,” Nacho started, Troy furrowing his brows as he chewed. “...it OK?” 

“Oh,” he touched his wound, swallowing, “yeah, it’s fine; no biggie.”

_Flushed the pain-killers, so it’ll be interesting. _

Nacho nodded, subtly, glancing at him but keeping his eyes on the coffee table as he ate. Eventually, he scanned the room, from the paneling to the simple decor, stripped paint and wallpaper, navy blue area rug and a faux-suede couch. _It all revealed nothing about him,_ so Nacho lowered his eyes to his sandwich, taking the last few bites. 

“...Are you—um,” he began, but his words fell away. 

“Huh?” 

“Nothing—never mind,” Nacho balled up the paper, stuffing it back in the bag, clearing his throat and wiping his mouth on his arm. 

“_What_?” Troy insisted through a mouthful, squinting. Nacho shrugged after a minute, leaning back against the couch cushions, sighing through his nose. 

“You, um...been around the _Carnales_ before,” he gained some courage, looking at him. “...haven’t you?” 

“Uh..._yeah_,” Troy nodded, allowing some begrudged honesty. 

“_Narco_?” 

Swallowing, his eyes wandered to an obscure corner of the room—_weighing the consequences—_before returning to him again.

“...Where’d ya hear that?” 

Nacho shook his head, averting his gaze to the table.

Dissatisfied, _and certainly not letting it go,_ Troy finished his food and stuffed the wrapper into the bag as well, crinkling it closed and moving it to the table. 

Turning to him, and leaning a bit closer, he gestured at nothing. “...So you're tellin’ me it’s..._what_—a _hunch? _Nobody _gave you_ that idea?_” _

“I seen my share,” Nacho told him, honestly. 

“_Where_, in Stilwater?” 

“In the _Sierra Madre_,” he clarified, quietly, looking at him again and raising his own dark, studded brows. 

Troy scoffed, dipping his head with a dry smirk, before meeting his eyes again. 

“_That it?_” 

“I’m _sorry, _it’s just…”

“_Just_?” 

“You live alone,” he glanced at the room. “And the way you talk about the docks, and shipments, and product—it’s, um, es _muy específico, _especialmente en el contexto de _narcóticos_—but I can tell you never worked a ship.” 

“Maybe I just _like ships._” Troy suggested, flatly. 

Nacho’s gaze lingered on the compass tattoo visible on the other’s shoulder, clearly challenging his conclusion, but he continued anyway. 

“I _thought that_, but, then there’s how you _shoot_, and cover your tracks, and you ain’t _from here_...I figure you _involved_, somehow. That guy I…” his voice tapered off, “...he knew _why_ I came for him—knew it was about what he done to you. He’d seen me at my job._” _He looked at him again, Troy’s eyes having turned _guarded_. “If we’ve both been seen around, they’re gonna’ know who we are.” 

His heart began to pound, but he fought it down.

_Christ, he’s sharp. _

“...It’s been a couple years.” Troy informed, shortly. 

_He had a point. _

__

_To the SPD, he was as much a Carnale as he was a Saint, at least on paper, and the conclusion of their equivalency was infuriating. _ “Far as they’re concerned,” he continued, hesitantly. “I’m either dead or skipped town—especially now since you took care of uh...all that.” 

__

“It’s _true_, then?” 

__

“..._Yeah_,” Troy relented, nodding. “...Before Julius formed the Saints. It uh…it didn’t _end well_.But, not a word to _anybody_,” he pointed, in warning, Nacho’s expression brightening to something sincere, or open—_maybe a bit reassured. _“If that got out, it’d be a _fuckload_ of trouble for me, a’ite—only _Julius knows_.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...What about _Dex_?”

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Whatt_about Dex_?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“If you’ve been on the inside, why’s he callin’ the shots on this?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“_Because_,” Troy sighed, leaning against the cushions, draping his arm over the back. “Exactly what you said, before. Julius don’t wanna’ take the chance of me gettin’ spotted, but he knows I’m..._well_, draw your own conclusions on how I _handle shit_. He wanted me to bring down _King’s_ network—that’s kinda’ my _thing, _intel.” He paused, clenching his jaw, before relaxing. “...That might _change soon_, I dunno’. Dex is eager to prove himself; Julius respects initiative, and he’s got a lot of it. This’s his shot.”

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“I won’t...pry, but, I need to know something.” Nacho murmured. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Hm?_” _

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Five years ago, were you with them?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy’s brows furrowed, quiet, but he shook his head. “No,” he explained. “I moved shit for a year, tops, back in ‘04.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“To Stilwater?”

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Yup—from Miami.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“You still have those connections?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy shook his head again, lighter. “I wouldn’t be here if I did.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“..._Ya veo_,” he said, a little dejectedly, eyes drifting off and his lips flattening. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy worked his thumb over the knuckle of his index finger a moment, tilting his head. “...Somethin’ I should know about?” When Nacho didn’t answer, he shifted toward him more, coaxing. “I answered _your_ questions, least ya’ can do is answer _mine_.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho sighed, peering at him, Troy raising his eyebrows. “...I’m _looking for somebody_,” he replied, eventually. “Went missing five years ago.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...’Kay,” Troy nodded, lifting his hand, before letting it fall back down on the cushion. “Who?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Eladio Torres—goes by _Lalo_.” His expression was grave, but neutral. “My uncle.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Blinking, Troy pondered with knitted brows, the name hovering in his thoughts, but his mouth twisted apologetically. “...Sorry, man.” He replied, gentler. “I got nothin’. Most’a the time, this kinda’ thing’s rarely even a _first-name-basis_ situation, let alone all that. What’s he look like?”

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Like me, I guess.” Nacho stared at nothing, blankly. “Would be in his forties now.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy paused, “...you file a police report?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Sí,” he nodded. “Never heard anything again.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“You got a case number?” He asked next, but reeled back his eagerness when Nacho raised an eyebrow at him. “I—Uh,” he elucidated, “I got a guy that’s good with computer shit.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...I can maybe find it, yeah.” Nacho nodded, a glimmer of hope returning to his eyes. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“‘Kay—yeah,” Troy unhooked his arm, sitting up on the couch, “get back to me with that. No promises but, can’t hurt to look. I take it _tio _ran with the Carnales?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...Sí, I think so.” he looked across the room. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“¿_Estibador?” _Troy guessed, gaining his attention again, to which he quietly nodded. Combing his fingers through his hair, wavy bangs drying and falling in his eyes as usual, Troy stood from the couch, hands hooking at his hips. Scratching at his beard, he contemplated, pacing in place, before his gaze settled on him again. “...Yeah, I dunno’. Look, why don’t we talk about this a little later, huh? Get me your copy of the report and I’ll pick some brains, call some people, see what I can dig up. People leave _tracks_, man. I know it’s been a _long time_, but...yeah. Ya’_ never know_.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...Thank you,” Nacho replied, quietly. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“_Yeah, yeah, yeah_.” Troy shook off, “Now, uh—_c’mon_, we can’t leave Dex standin’ around _high ‘n dry_, much as I’d love to.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho pulled himself away from the cushions, pushing his hair back behind his ears as he got to his feet. Troy holstered his gun, concealing it beneath the hem of the dark plum shirt, some additional bullets jingling in his pocket. As he patted his jeans, double-checking for his wallet and phone, he noticed Nacho extending pinched fingers, a key ring dangling from them. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Huh?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Your keys,” he held them out further. “Come get the _Vegas_ when you want; I put a spare key to my garage here, case I’m not home.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“You don’t gotta’ do that—”

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Use it,” he insisted, a bit flustered, “I’d rather you do that than something happen to your car. Just—don’t _lose this_, I’ll have to pay Lucas a fee to change the locks.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy paused, eventually reaching for them with a nod of thanks, finding the key to his front door on the table and reattaching it. Ready to go, Troy walked to his front door, opening it for the other, Nacho starting out into the hot sun. Locking up, Troy squinted in the harsh light to the _Bootlegger_, windshield gleaming, neat squares of body plaster sanded and primed where the bullet holes used to be—Samson’s handiwork. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Car looks good,” he called over his shoulder, as Nacho opened the driver’s side.

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

He was focused on the stretch of beach just behind Troy’s house, seagulls making a racket as they picked through newly-revealed driftwood, the waves of the coast glittering. There was an occasional rippling as bass and bowfin stirred beneath, plucking insects from the surface in the afternoon heat. A ferry floated by with a blaring horn, departing from Athos Bay, not a single remnant of the violent storm that overtook the town the night before in the clear, blue sky. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“It’s nice, huh?” Troy asked, rounding the front end of the _Bootlegger_ to the passenger side, lifting the handle. Nacho smiled, eyes dark, crescent slits, all of his freckles exemplified in the bright sunlight. A gust of coastal wind tossed his hair and blasted him in sandy residue, before he ducked into the car, shutting the door with a heavy slam. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Windows down, they both settled into the comfortable, old seats as Nacho turned the key, firing the engine, roaring out onto the peaceful street. Troy reclined, retrieving a new pack of cigarettes, tapping one free and taking it between his lips. Lighting it, he waved the smoke away, letting his hand dangle out the window as they lazily cruised down baked asphalt, mirages churning in the dips of road. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

The Sunday afternoon bells tolled as the church came into view, stirring perching mourning doves from the rooftops, their coos and fluttering joining the buzz of rattling air conditioners stacked in the neighborhood windows. Those not fortunate enough to take refuge indoors lounged outside, adults and kids alike seated in plastic kiddie pools, grills smoking out into the streets. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

They ambled for the church’s empty lot just shy of the cemetery, the classic car drawing cautious stares of admiration. Troy took a long drag, exhaling smoke between slightly parted teeth, tapping his fingers on the doorframe as the engine rumbled to a silent hault. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

With a grunt, he opened the creaking passenger door, both of them leaving the car—backs to the hot sun again. They stepped across bleached stone, climbing the stairs, two women and a man loitering by the doors in cut-off shorts, sipping lukewarm beer. They smiled in greeting at Nacho when he passed, prompting an impressed smirk from the blonde after they’d entered the cool refuge of the chapel. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“_Ah-ha_, makin’ friends, huh?” Troy asked, his voice carrying in the stone halls. “Gettin’ along?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho sheepishly glanced at him, “They don’t seem to mind me so much, anymore.”

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Makes sense,” he continued, looking around for Dex. “After last night? _Pfft. _Plus, you’re a pretty friendly guy, ‘specially for this town. Just stay outta’ trouble.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“We been nothing _but trouble_,” Nacho quipped, dipping his head to hide a bashful smile. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“_Ha—yeah_,” Troy balked with a puff of smoke, stuffing his hands in his pockets as they crossed the nave. “Sure you’re up for this?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...I’m sure,” he replied, confidently. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy skirted around a tipped pew, rounding the pulpit toward the sanctuary. Julius’ office was empty, his laptop gone, chair pushed under the desk— glass from the night before still sitting on the corner. The flickering of candlelight cascaded over the barren walls from down the hall, however, making Troy click his tongue and follow it briskly with Nacho close behind. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Turning the corner, Troy’s eyes settled on Dex’s back, hunched and meticulously tacking photographs to his cork board. He backed away with folded arms, as if he’d rearranged them several times already. His office was a boarded-up chamber of cobwebs and posters of scantily-clad swimsuit models, a substantial coating of dust settled on every horizontal surface. The candelabra cast warm shadows, each of the thick candles shimmering from pools of hot wax. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy blinked sleepy eyes, smoke floating into a thin, wispy trail from his dwindling cigarette. He cleared his throat, bringing the other to turn—startled. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Oh—_hey_, ‘sup man, I didn’t hear you come in.” He directed at Nacho, cordially, but his expression sharpened upon seeing Troy beside him. “...Hope you know some tweaker followed you in here, though—_that’s cool_, but you shouldn’t _encourage ‘em.”_

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho responded with an awkward silence, Troy lifting his chin and smirking wryly. He approached the cork board, Dex sauntering away while scratching his nose, unenthused. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

A large, previously folded map of Stilwater’s southern island took up a sizable portion of the board, several areas marked in red marker. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

_It wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. _

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

He scanned the photos, held in place with thumb tacks—the faces of Hector and Angelo Lopez, clad in their crimson _zoot-suits_, conjuring a particular sort of unease and disgust in his mind. He followed the collage, to a photo worse for wear pinned beside a newspaper clipping. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

_The late Alejandro Lopez, padre to the Carnales and the largest narcotics handle in the Great Lakes region, smiled back at him. _Troy’s eyes glazed in cold apathy, flattening his lips, cigarette bobbing. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Took up scrap-booking, huh?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“I was _about _to explain the situation,” Dex retorted, pointedly. “If that’s aight _with you._” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Sure,” Troy replied, distantly, turning to them both. He shuffled away from the board, pinching his cigarette and taking a drag, only half-listening as Dex took his place. Nacho came to stand beside Troy, focusing, but remaining silent. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Since neither of you are from here, I’ll take this from the top. _Los Carnales_ are the oldest gang in town.” Dex began, in a level voice. “Stilwater didn’t always used to be underwater, obviously. But, before the Flood, it was a port town. See—back in the early 1900s, this very buildin’ we standin’ in was the passion project of a devoted clergyman.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho looked up to the rapports, gaze lowering to him again. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“This church was a _marvel_ of Gothic Revival architecture, costing almost a _million dollars _back then—that’s _insane_ today. He wanted to draw people to the town, and it _worked._ The population swelled, and a lakeside settlement turned into a booming, Midwestern town. That lasted up until the 70s, when an influx of refugees came, ‘cuz of the Flood. The locals weren’t _comfortable_ with the idea of an integrated population, let alone a cross-denominational _assembly_—which our founder here didn’t mind, and that triggered white flight. Everybody pulled outta’ Mission Beach’s ‘burbs—yeah, the Row used to be _ideal_ white-picket fence type. The economy suffered, businesses closed down, and this church? _Abandoned_, which made the whole place _ample ground _for the Carnales to take hold. Enter this guy,” he pointed to Troy’s earlier fixation, tapping the photograph. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Alejandro Lopez. Now, he was _everything_: entrepreneur, investor, salesman...He had big plans for the Lake. Believe it or not, he bought out most the _town, _and being a devout Catholic, thatincluded the church. Over the years, he got in real deep with the local economy and politics. That all ground to a halt last year, as I’m sure you’re both aware of.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho’s brows furrowed, Troy listening with the same, steely expression. Dex shrugged his shoulders, nodding toward the newspaper clipping—a black and white print of a smoking vessel, out on the Lake.

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“So he goes _boom_. His yacht catches fire and capsizes with the old fuck on it. Can’t say he didn’t have it comin’, and he probably had a list of enemies two miles long, but, that’s where it ends. Nobody knows the _how or why_, the cops never dug in—and from what I heard? It’s _Fed-level_ shit now. But, quite frankly, nobody _gives a fuck_.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Exhaling smoke, Troy made impatient circles with his hand, shifting his weight to the other foot. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...That takes us to where we at now,” Dex continued, agitated, as he gestured again—this time to the photograph of the Lopez brothers. “His sons inherited the family business. But, without pop’s respect, their ties to the Mexican cartels fell apart.” Troy glanced at Nacho, noticing a subtle twinge on his brow that he could only recognize as discomfort. “...and so did their stake in the _heroin _market. See, they’d get all their opium _wholesale_ from—”

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Dex,” Troy interrupted, looking away before Nacho caught on to his observations. “_Get to the point_.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...They turned their attention to one of pop’s ties, a Colombian drug lord named _Manuel Orejuela_—his cash crop’s _cocaine_. But, see, you can’t sling the pure shit these days, that’s stupid _and _expensive.” Walking over to his table, he scooped up a tiny plastic baggie, holding it up for them to see. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...This’s it,” he flicked it lightly, “_Carnales merch_—meth and a dab of fentanyl. This is how they pick up the slack while they wait to secure a new deal with Orejuela. While this sells good _here_, most their bank comes from exports to _Canada_ over the Lake, and ground transport to other bases of operation. They’ve got ties all across the country; anywhere there’s _water_, there’s Carnales brand. Which is where you come in.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

He moved to the map, folding his arms, pondering, before cupping his chin. “...We can’t hope to stop ‘em without hurting their cash flow. Money means paid employees, guns, and sway—but we gotta’ be careful. Victor, their enforcer, is one scary motherfucker.” Nacho looked at another photograph of a tanned, muscular, tattooed man with a long, slicked ponytail. “He’s survived over a dozen VK drivebys; we do _not _want him catchin’ wind of this.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Of what?” Troy asked. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Turning, a smug, but excited glint flickered in his dark eyes, “I ID’d two of their labs around town. I need you,” he looked at Nacho directly, “to take ‘em out.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Where?” Troy pressed, Dex quirking a brow—his train of thought disrupted, yet again. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...I was gettin’ to that.”

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Then _get to it_,” He snipped. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Dex dragged himself to the board again, reaching into his pocket for the red permanent marker, taking the cap off with his teeth. He circled, speaking over the plastic, 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Right here—right across from Athos Bay, it’s a _stye, _so, nothin’ too crazy. Place’ll probably blow up with a _stern look._” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...And the second?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

He moved his arm, clear across the map due west, to the Bario. He circled a junction at Cecil Park, “this one’s a bit bigger—officially on Carnales turf.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

It was Troy’s turn to cross his arms, stepping closer to the board. “...How’d you find this?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“I had one of our own on it,” Dex answered, irritable. “Now I’d _appreciate it_ if you quit tryin’ to shoot holes in _my plan._” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“I’m more concerned with one of our own gettin’ holes shot inta’ _them_,” Troy remarked, bitterly. “Ya’ didn’t answer my question—how’d _one of our own _find two drug labs? Carnales dealers invitin’ their buyers down to their shop these days, huh? Givin’ _tours_?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Dex flattened his lips, glancing at Nacho—his expression just as demanding as Troy’s tone. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...One of our _girls _did it,” he clarified. “Got in good with the dealers.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“You pimped out a _Saint?” _Troy’s voice cracked, furious, unfolding his arms and taking a step toward him, “are you outta’ your _fuckin’ mind? _All this shit about _lyin’ low_ and you’re just sendin’ ‘em to the _fuckin’_ _dogs_? The fuck’s _wrong with you?” _

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“_Julius_ approved it,” Dex interjected, curtly, “and cut the _chivalry_, it ain’t a good look—they ain’t _Girl Scouts_; they know what they doin’. Besides,” he looked at Nacho, leveling his voice, “they got in and got what they needed. You should be _thanking me_, otherwise we’d be SOL.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Yeah, _fat-fuckin’-chance,_” Troy hissed, pacing now. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“..._Look_, man, I’ll make it _simple_.” Dex attempted to calm the room, “New Guy? You’re gonna’ _take out _out these labs. I heard what you did to that old liquor store; rinse and repeat on these two, OK—make it _big. _I want the news and the fuzz all up their asses, but, keep _yourself_ low-profile. The point is to _distract_. You?” He pointed at Troy, almost accusatory, the blonde looking up with a glare. “You’re gonna’ find where they’re _packaging_ this shit for shipment after it’s made.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Could be a dozen places anywhere in town.” He shook his head, waving him off. “Carnales still control the southern port andthe rail system, a’ite—They could be movin’ it by train or truck to the ship terminal from any spot with a warehouse.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Better get _started_, then.” Dex said, turning away from them both. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“‘Kay, well, lemme’ get this straight,” Troy remarked, snidely, “once I _find_ this joint, assuming there’s just _one, _what then?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho watched him, curious. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Just _find it,” _Dex raised a hand, sternly. “That’s all I want you to do; just _find the fuckin’ place._” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“That’s _it?”_

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“That’s it.” He repeated, jaw flexing. “When all this’s done, get back to me. We’ll move from there.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy shook his head again, more to himself as he extinguished the remaining nub of a cigarette on his shoe, Dex raising his eyes to Nacho as he turned to go. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy went to follow him, but Dex stopped him with a slow meander into his path, voice a bit lower. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...Should take lessons from the New Guy, Troy—he don’t _say shit._” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Yeah, dream come true for _you_, huh?” He countered, tilting his head. “Must be real easy when nobody _talks back._” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Perks of _runnin’ things,_” Dex smirked, pocketing his hands. “Gotta’ say...Julius was _real disappointed._” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy matched his dry display, before almost rolling his eyes, stepping around him. He ducked into the hall, Nacho standing quietly with his back to the boarded window—not quite as out of earshot as Dex anticipated. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Saying nothing, the two of them exited the church, eyes adjusting to blinding sunlight again. Coming to the _Bootlegger, _Troy opened his door—muttering under his breath—but Nacho paused to lean on the roof. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...Y’know, güerito,” he began, folding his arms on the warm metal. “I bet we can find where all that shit’s shippin’ from if we just _ask my boss_. He might know something.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Since he’s _dead_, I don’t think he’ll have a lot to say.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“_New boss_,” Nacho shook his head. “We rescued him last night—you remember him?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy leaned up, squinting in the light, pressing a shoulder against the doorframe. A bit exasperated, he shrugged, humoring him. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...Yeah? And what about the cops? Shit, what about the fuckin’ _Coast Guard?_ All of Athos is probably under investigation, and since that’s out of the picture the Carnales are gonna’ be directing their shipments to the south port instead —if it hasn’t all gone radio silent. Do you even _have a job _anymore?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“There’s an audit, yeah,” Nacho nodded, “but it’ll get swept under the rug—it’ll never go that far ‘cuz everybody get paid off. The port won’t _close, _or nothin’, and ‘s far as I can tell there hasn’t been any seizures. Us off-the-books employees just have to be scarce a while so we don’t get arrested, ‘cuz like I say before: we the first they look at. We can at least find out how it got there.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“I doubt _both _of your labs are actually shippin’ out. Which means, whatever’s reaching the docks is comin’ in by truck,” Troy noted, wanting another cigarette. “And, it’s packaged with other shit—somethin’ inconspicuous that can pass through a metal detector, somethin’ that can be portioned so that it won’t disrupt a weigh-in, and heavy in uh—in _smell_, so that dogs get thrown off—but it can’t react with the drugs or ruin ‘em.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“A couple years ago, I definitely packed bricks of _something,_ outright, like—in a _trash_ _bag, _right into the shipping container once or twice,” Nacho shook his head, “they paid the foreman and he looked the other way. Since then, though, I haven’t seen any actual product.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“See? So it’s disguised. A lot more than you _thought_ was probably gettin’ through—you just didn’t _see it_.” Troy contemplated_. _“...Question is, in _what?” _

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho shrugged, “...How would _you do it_?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Troy stared back at him quietly for a minute, the light breeze tossing their hair, before his eyes wandered to the trees and the silhouettes of statues in the cemetery. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Look, I just _drove a truck, _man, but...Back then, it was in _animal feed, _like, for farm animals—and _big_, I’m talkin’ _huge_, bags of corn. What does Stilwater ship out that would need packaging on the island?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho lifted his brows, resting his chin on his arms. “Biggest export are chemicals. Next behind that are parts, like for um...big trucks, and machinery. There’s an oil refinery, too. What you say lines up: our biggest _imports_ is grain and lumber.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...Huh,” Troy said slowly, turning around and looking to the plumes of smoke and steam in the afternoon sky, coming from the _Black Bottom _district not far away. “...Think you’re onto somethin’, man.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho tapped the roof with a balled fist, smiling at him, moving away to open his door.

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Chewing his lip in thought, Troy studied the skyline before he finally leaned into the _Bootlegger. _

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho started the engine again, letting it idle, before looking at his passenger. “...I got a question.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Got a _lotta’_ questions, today.” Troy commented, pulling the pack of cigarettes from his back pocket again. “But a’ite—shoot.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Feel like comin’ with me a couple places?” He asked, “...if I’m goin’ after these labs I’m gonna’ need some ingredients.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“_Yeah_,” Troy scoffed, chuckling, “I know all about your _ingredients_, a’ite, _firebug_—how ‘bout ya’ use a _name-brand_ bottle this time, huh? The cops traced your shoppin’ haul to that gas station down the road ‘cuz of it, I saw it on the news. You’re lucky that clerk didn’t rat your ass out.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“..._Shit_,” Nacho muttered, some agitation stirring over his freckled cheeks. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“Hey, don’t worry about it, just _be more careful._ Besides, I ain’t lettin’ you do this alone, a’ite, Dex can _get bent_—we’re gonna’ steal a couple cars, split up, take out each lab at the same time, then _ditch _the cars and rendezvous. It’ll be a done deal, quick ‘n easy.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nodding, slightly, Nacho looked up to check his mirror, adjusting it a little. “...You wanna’ do this tonight?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“That would be best,” he replied, voice a little muffled as he held the cigarette between his lips, “then we find where that shit’s gettin’ packaged from.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“I can call my boss first thing tomorrow,” Nacho said, working the shifter and backing the car out of the lot, turning with a jostle onto the street. Coming up to speed, he made a gentler turn for the highway, running parallel to the metro. As the wind bellowed, filling the cab with much-needed cool air, Troy flicked his lighter with a grumble behind a cupped hand. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Inhaling smoke, immediately eased, his eyes scanned the Lake below as they passed over the bridge, lost in the waves and blurring guardrails, smirking contentedly. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“...It’s _about time_,” he called over the deafening wind, eventually, Nacho lifting his chin. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“For what?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Taking another puff, he exhaled, smoke sucked away in seconds, focusing on all the recreational boats lined up in the wharf, one by one. His thoughts returned to the memory of rain, to the lights that blinded on that very same pier. “...That this shit _stops_. That they get what’s _comin’ to ‘em._” He let his head roll over the back of the seat, slumping down comfortably, starting to feel the sun making quick work to tan his exposed arm propped in the window. Peering at Nacho’s profile, and all his hair caught in the wind, he added, evocatively, “...Wouldn’t ya’ say?” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

Nacho glanced at him, grip relaxing on the wheel, before his gaze set ahead on the road again. 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

“..._Yeah_,” he agreed after a moment, a glint of something fiercer in his eyes, “I think so.” 

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We in it now!!!  
I invented a lot of history for Stilwater based on real locations and in-game hints. Some of it is just too obvious as the clear inspiration for certain timelines and places, especially the church, to ignore. (Mostly in Illinois.) 
> 
> I'm finally starting to tiptoe into Troy and Nacho's pasts, and I'm excited for that. I put a lot of work into the plot structure for expanding on the Carnales arc, so I hope you'll find it enjoyable.


	13. By Dirk or Dynamite

The _Bootlegger _slowed to the curbside in front of Nacho’s house, idling a moment as he turned the wheel to right the tires. He worked the shifter, gears creaking, before turning off the car—powerful engine rumbling to a halt, leaving them with the oddly pleasant smell of exhaust fumes wafting in blazing heat.

Troy remained slumped there, a moment, head lazily lulling forward as he leaned up in his seat, all of the soreness effectively taking hold. 

“I’ll get the shit,” he nodded with a murmur, opening his door and stepping onto the curb. The sun sank lower in the sky, Troy rolling his sunburned shoulders and pinching his shirt to fan away from his chest, rounding the back of the car to the trunk. Nacho joined him from the other side, opening it with a jingle of his keys, both of them peering down at a gas can and various plastic bags from the Barrio’s hardware store and gas station. 

He glanced at Troy, chewing his lip, the two of them having spent the last few hours crouched and sweaty in gravel, watching some Carnales wander the perimeter of a warehouse. It showed in Troy’s agitated expression, as he leaned against the bumper, sweat smearing his forehead. 

“...You need to sit, I think.” Nacho concluded. 

“I’m a’ite, I’m just thinkin’.” 

“Estás _quemado del sol,” _Nacho corrected, prompting a raised eyebrow. 

“..._Huh?” _

“You’re _cooking,” _he clarified, gesturing with lowered eyes to his shoulder. “Vamos—let’s move this and go in, you’ll cool off. I got the bottles.” He lifted the gas can and some of the heavier bags with a heave and started for his garage, Troy eyeing him tiredly. 

Sighing, and holding the trunk open with one hand, he ran the other through his dampened hair. He looped the bags onto his arm, glancing over his shoulder as Nacho opened the garage door with a clamber of folding sheet metal. There sat his _Vegas_, only the tires peeking out from beneath a beige dust tarp. 

He lingered on it a moment, before he looked at Nacho setting the can off to a corner. Leaning up and pulling the bandana from his head to dab the sweat from his eyes, he opened the interior door into the house, waving for Troy to follow. 

Huffing again, he returned his attention to the trunk and the low sun on his back, shutting it with a heavy slam. Walking briskly, he entered the garage, stepping up into the house. 

Nacho closed the door behind him as he moved through the tiled hall to the living room, sighing in relief at the sudden blast of cool air and dimmed light, a ceiling fan whirring pleasantly overhead.

Grunting, he set everything down on the living room floor, straightening his back and allowing his eyes to adjust. Raking his hair out of his face again, he steadied his breathing—using the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead, sunburn suddenly blanketing him in a clammy chill. 

Once his vision cleared, a dull pang prompted his hand to hover over his incision. He almost turned a full circle in place, mildly stunned by the reworked atmosphere of Nacho’s new home. 

A plaid green couch sat against the wall, a mattress and bed frame to the left beneath a tall window, dressed in matching sheets and a handmade, colorful blanket with geometric patterns. Some framed pictures and a campy movie poster decorated the walls, accompanied by hand-drawn illustrations on large sheets of—what appeared to be—car masking paper, secured with tape. Old cardboard boxes were strewn about, several other labels from past moves crossed out in black marker, still in a state of unpacking. The acoustic guitar leaning in a corner prompted a smirk, the worn finish revealing engraved wood beneath. 

There was a lockbox further back on the floor—_smart_, and a safe rested against the refrigerator—_smarter. _A few cartons of bullets were stacked on the round dining table, broken leg propped on a milk crate. 

“Seemed to have settled in a’ite,” Troy commented, noting that every surface had been scrubbed, a faint scent of lemon floor cleaner lingering. The flowers caught his attention next, more than one vase of colorful dahlias scattered around, making company with the several potted cacti lined up on the windowsill. “..._Flowers_, huh?” He teased, Nacho following his gesture to the bouquets. 

“Some grandmas I know gave them to me, from their garden.” He explained, dipping his head shyly. “I just moved in, so…” 

“Just never would’a saw the _muscle car _and thought: ‘hey—_flowers,’” _he snickered. “...and not _one_ of em’s _purple.” _

“Ya’ll don’t keep flowers? You come from that big, concrete junglecity, and no _signs of life_ en tu casa?” 

“Uh..._nah,” _Troy chuckled, scratching his head and looking at the floor.

“Ain’t that _sad?” _He questioned, baffled. “And _bland?”_

“Well…” 

“_Well_,” he mimicked his tone, “in México flowers are _everywhere_. Christmas, Easter, _Noriroachi_...” He informed, before playfully jabbing back, “People actually likes to..._sabes...enjoy things? _You could try it sometime_.” _

He pondered, scratching the back of his neck next, but regretting it as he scraped tender skin. “I mean, uh—don’t _get me wrong_, it _is_ kinda’..._nice, _I guess. If you’re _into the sensitive shit_. They’re uh..._nice, _and they _were _gifts, so...can’t say _no_ to a gift, right?” Nacho nodded with sarcastic, mock astonishment, smirking to himself. “Now, don’t get me wrong—the place is still kinda’ _bare bones_, but, it _almost_ looks like a house in here.” 

“_Almost_,” Nacho agreed, stepping out of his sandals and leaving them at the door. He walked across the tile and through the connected doorway to the open kitchen, shrugging. “It feels good to be under a roof—almost don’t knowwhat to do with all this _space. _I’m kinda’ camping in the corner.” He gestured to his couch and bed, fairly secluded to one section of the living room. 

“Ya’ lift all this shit yourself?” Troy asked, moving to stand in the path of the AC. “I could’a _helped, _y’know, well—_probably not last week_, but…” 

Nacho smiled and opened his refrigerator, bottles clinking as he did. 

“Seein’ what I do for a living, it’s not a big deal. _Pero—_” he paused, thinking, before pointing at a box on the floor, lid propped open, a couple of tools and lengths of new piping abandoned beside it. “...You know how to put in a sink?” 

“Uh…” Troy drawled, voice hanging, Nacho grinning at him and taking a beer from the door. 

“That’s a ‘yeah’?” 

_No. _

_“...Yeah_?” He nodded, nonchalantly. “No—_yeah, _course; ‘s easy.” 

“Cool,” Nacho smirked again, shutting the fridge and walking over to the countertop. He hooked the bottle cap on the edge, using his palm and a flat, sudden motion to pop it free. Crossing the floor, he held it out to him, “When there’s time I’d appreciate it.” 

“..._Yeah_, uh—_no problem_.” He replied, sheepishly, taking the cold foamy drink, already perspiring, and bringing it to his lips. He stared at the floor, brows furrowing as Nacho dug through the bags. 

_Note to self: figure out how to install a sink. _

Sipping it, he exhaled through his nose, examining the label as he swallowed. As promised, it wasn’t a traceable bottle. 

“‘Gotta say man,” he murmured, “I got no idea howta’ make a Molotov.” 

“Wha’chu think it is?” Nacho asked, amused, bringing some of the other bags over to his coffee table. Troy shrugged, shuffling across the room as he took another swig, fanning himself. 

“Fill it up with shit and light it.” 

“That’s most of it,” he answered, buoyantly, setting the chemicals and rags out on the table. “I show you how—_‘s easy_,” he parroted, waving him over. 

“Uh...I’ll chill on the floor. I don’t wanna’ funk up your new couch.” 

“That look _new to you_?” He scoffed, before waving for him again. 

Shrugging, Troy sat down, sinking into the sofa—_stupidly comfortable—_his head rolling back over the cushion. Nacho took a seat beside him but stayed at the edge, starting to work in ripping the packaging open. 

“...If I ain’t careful, I ain’t gettin’ up.” Troy mumbled, letting his eyes close, beer set in his lap and finally starting to cool down. “...Y’know, maybe _Dex_ could do all this,” he suggested with mock enthusiasm, listening to Nacho stifle a snicker. “Maybe _he_ can go _burn shit_ and get _shot at_ and try to not get _blown up. _I wanna’see that. That’d be real good. Come ta’ think of it, I ain’t _never_ seen Dex throw down—‘less of course it was with twenty other guys to _back ‘im up_, but, _‘ey_. Didja’ know he pulled a _knife_ during his canonizing? _Yeah._” 

He picked up his beer, it sloshing with another swig. Swallowing, and squinting at the ceiling now, “...See, that’s his problem; he wants to call the shots without gettin’ his hands dirty. Ya’ gotta’ _work_ for that kinda’ respect; ya’ can’t just march in and demand it. He thinks _playin’ dirty_’s the same as doin’ _dirty_ _work._” 

“How’d _you_ meet Julius?” Nacho asked, setting out his assortment. 

“Uh...It was more or less a _perfect storm _kinda’ deal,” He replied, with a heavy exhale. “Shit was kinda’ fucked for me back then. He gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse—needed my help with somethin’ big. I took him up on it and afterward we uh...well, the Saints are _a thing_, so...his plans worked.” 

“This how you left the Carnales? You met Julius?” 

“Yeah—sure,” Troy nodded, “that’s the discount version, so we’ll go with that. He’s got a way of uh, doin’ that _thing. _Showin’ up in the right place at the right time, y’know what I mean?” He shook his head, voice a bit dry. “He got me that way too, just like you. Only I wasn’t, uh…” he fumbled his words at the memory of the other dragging himself, bloody, across cracked asphalt. “...wasn’t, _yeah.” _

“I can do this if you want,” Nacho offered, turning to look at him, cardboard tearing as he freed the pack of rags. 

“No,” He insisted, outstretching his arms, urging himself to sit up. A hand cupping his injury, the tape still holding, he scooted closer to him and set the beer on the table. “We’re doin’ this, but I gotta’ ask—when you torched the liquor store, how’d you go about controlling the explosion and clearin’ the building? These bunk labs are notoriously unstable, which is why nobody’s gonna’ have a hard time believin’ they went up.” 

“_Pues…_” Nacho trailed off as he chewed his lip, setting out the last metal tin of kerosene. 

“_Huh?” _

“No_ sabía_,” he shrugged, a little bashful, “...I was just tryin’ to smoke everybody out the building, in case they hiding. I saw the _tanks_ and booked it.” 

Troy blinked, staring at him, before Nacho returned his look with a somewhat embarrassed smile. 

“..._’Kay_, a’ite,” Troy nodded, setting his arms on his knees and hooking his fingers together. “That was uh..._stupid.” _His eyebrows lifted for emphasis, Nacho shaking his head and resuming his organizing. “But, _uh_...it’s OK, ‘cuz now ya’ got that figured out—we _learned somethin’: _bunk labs go to _boom.” _

“I don’t know things like Samson does, but I figure we douse the place in gas, throw one of these...it should give us enough time to get out.” 

“From what we staked out today, the lab across the bay in the Mills district’s gonna’ be the easiest. It’s far enough away from anythin’ that it won’t set half the neighborhood _on fire_.” Troy reached for his beer again, “But, I did see a couple’ a cars hangin’ round, and a good bit of foot traffic in the dirt, so...might be some muscle.” 

“You still wanna’ split up?” Nacho asked, turning to him, Troy meeting his eyes over the tilt of the bottle. “Might be safer if we stay together.” 

Shaking his head slightly, Troy finished his beer, wiping his mouth with his palm, wincing a bit as he swallowed. “Nah—I mean, I _agree, _but it’s not a good idea.” He cleared his throat, handing the empty bottle to Nacho before rubbing his hands together idly. “See—our descriptions are still floatin’ ‘round town. After last night, they’re gonna’ be on the lookout for us Saints, for VK, for Rollerz, and for the cops. We hafta’ be _discreet. _Our best bet is to jack a couple’a cars and go at ‘em at once. That way, if shit gets bad, we don’t gotta’ worry ‘bout ‘em cornerin’ us at the second location. Word travels fast with this kinda’ thing— ‘specially right now.” 

“You know how? Steal a car?” 

“Uh-huh,” Troy lifted his chin, “it’ll be quick and quiet. But—hey, look,” he shifted toward him slightly, tapping his arm, prompting his attention. “Why don’t you take the one across from the bay. You know the area, and it was just an old _warehouse_; can’t be much. I’ll handle the one in Cecil Park—that’s the one that’s gonna’ be tricky.” 

“I lived in the Barrio since five years,” Nacho told him, peering through his lashes. “I doubt you know that way like I do.” 

“How do _you know _that?” Troy challenged, Nacho giving him a look. Relenting, he hung his head and nodded. “Yeah—OK. You got me. But, Cecil Park was bad. Right under the highway bridge, lots of traffic through there, a lotta’ guys. I dunno’ if _we can do it_, but...we’re gonna’ have ta’ figure it out.” 

“...So, how can I say so you reconsider?” 

Troy looked up, furrowing his eyebrows, Nacho’s expression a bit listless. “What; whattaya’ mean?” 

“This plan,” he gestured, broadly. “I think we should do it a different way.” 

“Man, I told ya’, _we—_”

“I rather we do _one_ for sure than try to do _two_ and fuck up _both_,” he urged. “Cecil Park’s bigger—_true_, I know the way and the streets there but, I could use somebody watching my back. Plus if we tailed, somebody gotta’ _shoot_ and somebody gotta’ _drive_.” 

“Yeah, but—”

“And how’s I ‘sposed to shoot, carry the gas can, light the Molotov _and_ throw it? I don’t have _that many hands,_” he added, speaking a bit quicker over him. 

“No, but—”

“_Pero—_¿y si me necesitas para protegerte? Mira lo que sucedió anoche, eso podría haber acabado _muy mal_ para nosotros,” 

“Nacho—“

“Y ¡mira lo que pasó en la pista de carreras—!” He squinted, “Seguiste a un tipo al baño y te apuñalaron. _Nunca se sabe_—“ 

“OK, _a’ite_,_” _Troy interrupted, louder than him. He waved him off with an exasperated sigh, a victorious grin spreading across Nacho’s face. Flopping back into the couch again, Troy rubbed his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine—_‘kay_? We’ll go, both of us. But, I can’t always _do this_, y’know, Julius ain’t gonna’ appreciate me taggin’ along when he might need me on other jobs. Don’t ya’ want him to know ya’ can handle shit alone?” 

“He don’t gotta’ know everything. Además, _no me importa_,” Nacho shook his head, a bit bluntly, Troy raising an eyebrow in return. “I care about the job being _done_, and keeping everyone alive. Politics can wait.” 

“Yeah...OK,” He nodded, reluctantly, letting his hand drop into his lap. “_Fair enough_.” 

“You no wannu’?” 

“_Wannu’_ _what_?” 

“Do this with me?” 

Troy lifted his hand, shrugging aimlessly, before plopping it down again. “I mean, I _guess _we can, yeah—it’s nothin’ _personal_, or nothin’, it’s just..._Shit_, if we could get away with bringin’ some of the _crew along_, I would. But _‘covert’s_ gonna’ be the magic word for awhile; that’s what Dex wants, and I’m on Julius’ shit-list at the moment. That’s all I was sayin’.” 

“It’ll work out, _no te preocupes, _OK?” Nacho assured, standing and going to his fridge again. Taking out two more beers, he opened the caps on both, handing him his second and sitting down. 

Snorting, Troy took it, “I keep this up and you’ll be wheelin’ me outta’ here.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re fucked up after _two,” _he goaded, taking a long swig of his own. 

Troy shook his head, reclining, “I’ll be in a _good mood _cappin’ dealers, is all.” 

“Good—‘cuz we need the bottles, and I no like to waste. Two each should do it. Now,” he said, turning to him. “You gonna’ watch,’or what?” 

He nodded, Nacho flipping open his pocket knife and taking a rag, cutting a slit in the hem so he could tear the rest. 

By sundown, the sky overtaken in bleeding hues, four prepared Molotovs sat against the garage wall. Troy lingered opposite near the entrance, smoking and watching as the occasional passerby wandered through the park or along the sidewalk, the streets gradually emptying. 

He unfolded his arms when Nacho approached, a plastic bag in one hand, holding out the hooded sweatshirt he’d borrowed the night before, fresh from the dryer, in the other. 

“You oughta’ cover your hair,” he said, Troy lifting his eyebrows, cigarette bobbing from his lips. “_Güerito_.” 

“Ah—_that’s_ what that means,” he commented, taking the cigarette away and looking for a place to set it. “Gotta’ say, I feel like I’m in the third grade again knowin’ you’re goin’ around callin’ me _blondie.” _

“I got _these today_,” Nacho ignored, taking his cigarette from him. Troy paused, awkwardly, before taking the opportunity to pull the sweatshirt over his head, promptly pushing up the sleeves. “Those labs?” he continued, handing him back his cigarette. “The last one made me feel sick, _mareado_.” 

“There’s alotta’ fucked-up fumes.” Troy nodded, “They’ll throw just about anything in that shit.” 

“So, perks of this, it hide your face and helps you breathe.” He pulled out a paint respirator from the bag, a second still inside. “I figure it would help us.” 

“Yeah, good thinkin’. Which one you wanna’ hit first?” 

“Wha’chu think?” 

“_Pfft_—hey,” he shrugged, “I told ya’ it’s your call; I’ll follow you.” 

Nacho pondered, standing quietly for a moment, before wandering to the back of his garage to the dryer again. Taking a zippered sweatshirt—a flat beige color, he worked his arms into the sleeves. “_A ver_...I say the Mills first, then Cecil Park. That way, is less likely anybody will notice—we hit the crowded one first, word’s gonna’ go out. Plus, it’ll be easier to get away from the Mills district.” 

Troy shrugged, a smirk playing on his reddened face, “Now you’re gettin’ it. Next thing’s snaggin’ a car. You got a uh—a _hand drill_?” Nacho shook his head. “How ‘bout a hammer? Screwdriver? Fuck, a _bottle-opener_?” 

“Hammer and screwdriver,” he nodded. He sectioned off the top half of his thick hair, wrestling it into a stubby ponytail out of his face, before tying the bandana low on his forehead again. “_Está bien_,” he concluded, hands dropping to his sides. “I’ll be right back with the tools and a bag for these. Then I guess...we can go.” 

“Ah—yeah, go handle that, I’m gonna’ get somethin’ real quick,” Troy took his keys from his pocket and started for his car, as Nacho turned back into his house. Lifting the dust cover off his Vegas, he unlocked the door and opened it, reaching into the backseat—the assault rifle still there. Narrowly dodging slamming his head on the doorframe, he leaned back out and shut the door, checking the gun over now that he could see it well. He took the magazine out, squinting at the bullets—_enough for tonight. _

When Nacho returned, carrying a duffel bag, his eyes widened as Troy palmed the magazine back in with a loud click. Glancing up at him, he held it at his side, fingers flexing on the grip. “This’ll be a big help. Ya’ got ammo?” 

Nacho raised his other hand, a box of bullets in it, giving it a rattle. He set the duffel bag on the ground, Troy working the gun into it—a narrow fit, but it cleared. The Molotovs were next, upright, all four of them zip-tied together to secure them. The bullets went on the other end to balance it, a flashlight tucked into a pocket, and the respirators set on top. 

Zipping it up, he carefully lifted it, keeping it level. Gesturing with spread arms and a huff, “That’s everything. We good to go.” 

Troy nodded, going out into the driveway to step on his cigarette butt, before returning to pick up the gas can, Nacho carrying the bag. 

After closing the garage door and locking it, they started for the sidewalk, the sun dipping low on the horizon. 

They walked as far as the metro station, night creeping closer as twilight loomed overhead, Troy scanning the sidewalks and darkening parking lots for any potential prying eyes. He clenched his jaw, watching, before Nacho tapped him on the arm, pointing across the lot at a lonely pickup truck parked near a dumpster. 

“That’s a _clunker,” _Troy whispered, loudly. 

“...Probably runs.” He replied, looking up at him as he quietly studied it. “You can do it?”

Sighing, Troy glanced behind him and around—aside from a few lights on in the adjacent apartment building, they were alone. 

“...Yeah,” he murmured, reluctantly. “Yeah—OK; let’s make this quick.” 

Stepping lightly, he crossed the lot, Nacho following. Troy set down the can, leaning against the driver’s door and trying the handle—to no avail. He pointed, briefly, to the passenger door, but Nacho was already rounding the back. He did the same, pressing the steel button, but it didn’t budge. 

“Ah_—shit_,” Troy grunted, unsurprised, turning and looking at the curbside, moving to the bank and picking up a chunk of concrete that had broken off. Hurrying back, he was about to smash the window, when he noticed Nacho in the bed of the truck. Confused, and mildly alarmed. “_Whattaya doin’?” _

“_Mira,” _He gestured, crouching, pressing his hands to the sliding window. It didn’t move at first, but with more pressure, he managed to push it open through rusted tracks. Smirking, gapped teeth flashing, Troy shook his head. 

“That’s _great ‘n all, _but there’s _no way you’re_—“ 

Before he could finish his sentence, Nacho stood and was carefully stepping into the window. He got his first leg in, then the second, managing to squeeze his hips through. He faltered, however, at his abdomen. 

Troy watched, greatly resisting the urge to _indulge in a ‘told ya’ so,’ _as Nacho’s head rose, more _startled _than anything. 

_“...They make windows a lot smaller these days,”_ he commented jokingly, Troy hanging his head to hide his smirking. 

“Either that, or they made the _buffets a lot bigger.” _

“Ah—_Sí,”_ Nacho agreed with an amused grunt, huffing and shimmying. He sucked in his breath and stretched his arms out in front, and albeit still snug, he jerked back and slipped through the rest of the way, plopping down on the seat. 

Troy shook his head, rubbing his nose while Nacho unlocked the driver’s door. Setting the gas tank in the truckbed, he opened his door and climbed in, taking a screwdriver from his sweatshirt’s front pocket. 

“...I think you’re secretly a _fuckin’ raccoon,” _he muttered as he ducked down, feeling around beneath the steering wheel, Nacho grinning in reply. “Check your side—ya’ feel a killswitch? Should be a uh—a little _metal thingy,_ like a, _y’know_,” as he stumbled over his words, Nacho searched under the dash on his side, shaking his head. Troy nodded and beckoned him over, “Ya’ brung the...? _OK_—grab me the hammer and get the light goin’ on this; we gotta’ make this quick.” 

Unzipping the bag, Nacho retrieved the flashlight and clicked it on, angling it so Troy could see, handing him the mallet. He watched the parking lot, keeping his head low, Troy bringing the screwdriver beneath the keyhole. 

“OK—, y’know, one of the benefits of an oldie’s that there’s no _chip keys_,” he commented, before tapping the screwdriver with the hammer, the first time it slipping off. He righted it, biting his lip, and smacking it again. The plastic cover broke, snapping off and flying somewhere onto the floorboard, the ignition switch exposed. He then quickly brought the screwdriver to it, using the hammer to force it in, the loud taps making Nacho jump. 

“_Por Dios, _güerito_—_” Nacho warned, Troy flipping his hair out of his face irritably. “Half the _town will hear us_—Aintchu’ gonna’ _hotwire it_ _or whatever?_” 

“No,” he grunted, shortly. 

Nacho said nothing, a bit wide-eyed and puzzled, Troy giving the screwdriver a final hard tap with the mallet. Satisfied, he hurriedly gripped the handle, twisting it with a tilted jerk of his wrist—Nacho’s eyebrows rising as the engine turned over. The cab jostled as it sputtered to a start, Troy wincing at the sound, before it stabilized.

“A’ite,” he exhaled, sitting up and putting it in reverse, turning to look over his shoulder as he backed out of the space. He stopped and shifted, righting the wheel and turning the truck out onto the street. Once they’d driven a block or two, he switched on the headlights, checking his rear view mirror. 

Nacho sat back in his seat, watching his profile, Troy glancing at him and drumming his fingers nervously on the wheel. 

“The bay first,” he reiterated, Nacho snapping back the slide on his gun, nodding.

Nearing the Mills District, Troy turned the truck onto an uneven dirt and gravel road, shaking the cab as he switched off the headlights. It brought them down a hill, fairly open and grassy, the water of Athos Bay calm and black beneath the night sky. The harbor lights flashed, a barge loaded in freight crossing with the baritone blare of its horn, misty fog blanketing the lowland grass in a thick haze. Troy turned the truck in front of a spacious warehouse—stacked logs against the building, chain-link fencing skirting the dumpsters and storage sheds, even more warehouses further down along the river. As he parked, turning the screwdriver, the engine quieted, leaving them to contend with a still silence of distant water and the buzz of dragonflies and crickets. 

Nacho set the heavy bag onto the seat between them, unzipping it and removing the Molotovs, slicing the zip tie free with his knife. Troy lifted his gun from the center and set it against the seat, double-checking the safety. The respirator moved into view, held in Nacho’s outstretched hand, and with a subtle nod Troy brought it to his face, adjusting the straps behind his head and pulling it snug to his nose. As Nacho did the same, they looked at one another for a moment, Troy’s pale brows lifting, before lowering with a creased forehead. 

“Hey, man...uh,” he began quietly, voice muffled beneath the mask. He glanced at the dark silhouettes of the surrounding storage warehouses and silos, fireflies flickering out in the unkempt wheatgrass. Nacho blinked calmly as he watched the glare of the streetlights in his anxious eyes, tilting his head to listen.

“¿_Qué te pasa_?” 

“Nah—_nothin’_, it’s just, uh..._Look_, what happened _last night_, when the cops showed up? We ain’t _doin’ that again_, ‘kay—_no bueno_. You ‘n me? Whenever we’re handlin’ things, ya’ know we uh...I think we get it done _right_. We’ve shooken down some guys before, and it went a _lot better_ than the docks, so...uh,” his voice trailed off, bouncing his knee. Nacho dipped his chin slightly, but kept his attention centered on him. 

“..._More of that_.” He finished, Troy looking up, awkwardly, nodding and averting his eyes. 

“Right.” He continued, softer, a short exhale through his nose to follow. “...Look _after yourself,_ a’ite? I know ya’ _can—_ya’ _proved that_, just uh...I gotta’ _harp about it._ This ain’t like that traphouse—‘kay, or even the chaos over there,” he gestured toward the Bay. “Don’t get used to that, the Lopezes...uh, don’t do business like that. Unlike our mutual friendyou smoked, these guys are the _real deal,_ and this is their _real market_. It’s the ass-end of it, but, it’s money_. _We start fuckin’ with ‘em and it ain’t gonna’ be over ‘til it’s _over_._” _

Nacho nodded in reply, slowly at first, before scooting closer, beckoning his attention. 

“Dex said they had a falling out with their past cartel connection. If they dropped them?” He shook his head, hand brushing the subject away. “They did something stupid. Meaning, they eager to restore face, respect, and business. They need to show Stilwater _and_ their new contacts that they can be like their father. That will be our edge—it will corner them. I have no fear.” 

“Yeah—ya know what they say ‘bout a cornered animal, Nacho.” Troy scoffed. “I dunno’ what you’ve seen, but I’m tellin’ ya this: watch yourself.” He exhaled, sharply, looking back at the silos. “...Please.” 

Nacho’s eyes reflected a hint of a smile, and he blinked thoughtfully. “..._Tranquilo_, güerito,” he said, raising a hand and gripping his shoulder, Troy glancing at him with some startled reservation. 

“Don’t _worry _so much_. Todo_ va a _salir bien_, OK?” He gave a couple supportive slaps, Troy sighing reluctantly and slouching in his seat. Nacho lifted his brows in response, assured, as he opened his door. “Let’s go _light up their shit_.” He ushered, gust of cool, damp wind flooding the cab, dim console light illuminating. “You could even have _fun a little._” 

“_Yeah_,” The blonde snorted, reaching for the handle. 

Keeping quiet, he ducked out of the truck and closed the door gently, Nacho joining him. Brandishing the magnum, he waved it pointedly as he started cautiously down the bank, footsteps crunching in dewy grass, watching for movement in the fog. 

They kept close to the sheet siding of the warehouse, passing the stacked lumber, before turning the corner. The abandoned series of sheds near the water came into view, Troy huffing inside the mask, breath hot as he squinted. The cracks in the doorway of the shed furthest down on the end leaked yellow light out onto dark grass, the subtle boom of a radio bass staticky, but distant. He pressed his lips together, eyes hardening, but something else caught his attention. 

“_Nacho—_“ he stammered quickly, reaching behind and grabbing him, ushering him to his side. Pointing into the darkness, “_Da fuck’ssat—_?” 

Nacho peeked around his arm curiously. Beyond the edge of the warehouse sat a large, industrial metal storage tank, now occupying the yard, a company logo printed on the side. 

“...Petrol,” he said slowly, noticing the red triangle _‘flammable’_ symbol beneath the print. “A _lot_.” 

“Wazzat here earlier_?” _

“_No sé_,” he murmured back, “But, it’s definitely fuel.” 

“_Shit_,” Troy hissed, glancing behind him, before looking back at it and gauging the distance between the tank and the sheds. “...If fire hits that thing while we’re anywhere near here, it’d be a fuckin’ _catastrophe_.” 

“...What do we do?” 

“Dunno’,” he muttered, fidgeting. “...What would it take to make that thing blow and _not kill us_?” 

“You wanna’?” Nacho asked, gripping his arm and making him face him. “...That’s six-_thousand _gallons, you know what that can do?” He raised his brows, pointing to the warehouse beside them with his thumb. “I hope you know that this whole building’s _done_ too; it’s all going up.” 

“Just walk me through it.” 

“...Pues, it’s not like the movies. A tank like this needs some conditions_. _Gasoline—it don’t _explode_, it ain’t even _burn_ when it’s still liquid. Wha’chu mean is...um,_” _he closed his eyes, trying to recall. “El proceso DDT—la transición de la deflagración a la detonación.” 

Suddenly _aggressively confused_, Troy pressed his shoulder to the building, squinting at him. 

“_No idea,_ man—just, uh—gimme’ the _crash course_.” 

“_Va_—I try to explain you. Gasoline...um, _shit_…” he studied the grass, tapping his foot, making frustrated circles with his hands, “_Disculpa_, I can’t,—¿_La evaporación_?” 

_“Evaporate_?” He tried, quickly. “Vapor?” 

“Is the same word?” 

“It evaporates _into _vapor—right?” 

“Sí, sí claro—evaporate,” he shook his head, flustered, “_very rapidly _with almost nothing for heat—we talkin’ like, 8 or 9 degrees. Celsius, I mean. When it’s the gas state it catch fire very easy. _So, _if you _cook it?_” He continued, gesturing, Troy peering at him with increasingly concerned eyes. “What happens is, the liquid fuel turns hot and into _vapors_, which then _expand_, and pressures the inside. This can make the tank _break_, and...” he brought his fingers together, before splaying them away, mimicking the sound of a comical explosion. “It _acts_ like _una detonación_ if there is the right mix of oxígeno and vapors.” 

Blinking, Troy’s brows knitted and relaxed as he processed his words, shifting his weight to the other foot. 

“...Well, I _did _ask...” he murmured, Nacho shooting him a look. “How long we talkin’?” 

“_Eh_,” he shrugged, “ten minutes? It have to get _really hot,_ like...start the fire _right_ under it. Is _very _dangerous; I don’t know how full it is—_it matters_ how much air’s inside, if it’s vented, if it’s _leaking_...” 

“...Can ya’ _do it_? Is it possible?” 

Nacho’s gaze hovered just ahead, seemingly focused on nothing as he retreated into thought. After a few seconds, he rejoined the present, looking up at him and nodding. 

“I got this.” 

“...’Kay, listen. We clear the _lab first_. Then we uh...,” he looked back at the tank, before his tired eyes returned to the shed. “...We fill Dex’s order.” 

He urged them on with a roll of his shoulder, Nacho keeping close behind. They crossed the cleared, dirt lot, hurrying down the hill near the water’s edge and pressing their backs to the cinderblock wall. Troy held the revolver close to his chest, inching toward the metal door, heart starting to pound. He watched the light through the door’s gap, noticing a silhouette that moved before ambling away and back again—a slow, repetitious pace of whomever was walking inside. He outstretched a hand to Nacho, signaling him to stay put, to which he replied with a glint of impatience in his eyes. 

Troy focused on the door, unblinking, a thin strip of light streaking over his eye as he peeked through the crack. He could almost make out the form of a man, his rounded back to the entrance, hunched over a bench. 

_Just one…? _

The man tapped his foot and swayed with the music, cranked so loud and with so much bass that he didn’t even turn when Troy straightened his posture, a heavy hand pushing on the creaky door. 

It gently opened, chains from the locks dangling, the lab laid out to view. It was a pigsty of crowded shelves and fold-up tables, the floors sticky and splattered in a substance turned _gluey, _half-open containers of drain cleaner, antifreeze, and dented barrel drums occupying every available corner. It made his _eyes sting_—even with the respirator, he could feel the astringent haze on his lashes. 

The man still continued to fiddle with something, pausing only to check a filthy bucket to his right, turning his attention back to the office area—a small, sectioned-off corner boxed in by corrugated sheet metal walls and a doorway where only the hinges remained. He wandered back, paying no mind to Troy as he hovered at the entrance. 

Glancing around, the warehouse was modest enough that he could see every corner. There was one garage door on the north side, but with all the clutter he doubted it’d been used recently. He stepped gently, shoes sticking to the floor as he approached the office. Blinking through the thick air, he spotted benches lined in pressure cookers and garbage, yellowed tubing duct-taped to water jugs and flasks.

His dark eyes lidded, _annoyed_, as he lifted his arm—aiming down the sights of the gleaming revolver. He walked, carefully, _quietly_, even if the music was so loud he could barely hear himself _think. _As he ducked through the doorway, he reached for the dated radio resting on a stack of crates, gripping the cord and yanking it from the power strip. 

The sudden silence brought the man to raise his head, confounded, but not startled. He swore to himself under his breath, turning to fix it, before he caught glimpse of the .45 in his face, Troy clicking back the hammer. 

“_Shh_,” he ordered flatly, unmoving. “Hands up.” 

The man swallowed, his blue eyes wide and wired, lips burned and thin, a gaunt face beneath greasy hair and a five-o-clock shadow. He shakily raised his hands, slow, but no higher than his chest—his nails discolored and his fingers cracked and calloused. 

Nacho moved through the gravel, flattening his feet through his thin sandals to avoid making a sound. He inched along the building, gun cocked and aimed, glancing down at spent cigarette butts and shattered glass. A shadow moved in the path of the harbor’s spotlight just beyond the corner, the iridescent police tape still flapping in the wind across the water on the pier. Inhaling, and holding his breath, he peered around the corner of the warehouse through the gap in the gutter pipe, but shirked back suddenly. 

A large bald man clad in red and plaid, bandana tied low over his brow, rose from from his folding chair to relieve himself on the side of the building. Nacho inched forward, squinting, mosquitoes and sweat bees swarming the glowing light overhead. Grimacing, he raised the gun, taking aim, before— 

“Hey! Why’d the tunes stop?” The man in his sights called, ducking slightly to look around the corner. “Think he’s done already?” 

“I’unno,” came a man’s voice from the other side. “I’ll go check on ‘im.” 

Nacho breathed a curse, barely a whisper, as he brought his arm under his elbow to stabilize his aim. 

“Where’s the factory?” Troy demanded, “Hm? Where ya’ packin’ this shit up?” 

“I don’t…” he slurred, oddly aloof. “I‘m just a cook, man, I just do this, they don’t tell me nothin’—”

“Bullshit, ya’ make rounds. You in charge?” 

“No—nah,” he shrugged, whimsically. 

“Ya’ ain’t? So this ain’t yours?” He kicked a cardboard box on the floor with the side of his foot, two zipped produce bags full of white powder inside. “Who’s the real guy that made this, huh? I wanna’ talk ta’ him.” 

“Nah, that’s—“ he sniffed, increasingly agitated and stumbling over his words. “I don’t...no, no.” He shook his head, “Why you bein’ _like that_—who the fuck _are you_?”

“Ya’ steal it?” 

“Hey—_no_,”

“I think ya’ _fuckin’_ _stole it._” 

“_Fuck you—_! This is _my shit_, OK? I do _all_ the work ‘round here and I don’t—I don’t get _jackshit_ for it, I’ve been pullin’ double since retard got _barbecued,” _he sniffed and looked him in the eye, _but not quite_, blinking indignantly. “You think that—that shit _scares me_? You think y'all can _kill _me_? Me_? You know what I _deal with_, motherfucker—? You know _who the fuck I am?_” 

“Hey—! _What’d I say?_” Troy barked, aggravated. “_Answer my question _and I won’t _paint that wall_ in your brains, huh?” 

The cook flinched, freezing, hands snapping back up. “Ya’ wanna’ _die here_, for _them_?” Troy goaded, “‘Cuz I promise ya’ ain’t _shit _to them, and ya’ ain’t _shit to me_, so why not tell me _what I want_, ya’ _pick that up_,” he tilted the gun a bit toward the box, “and bail outta’ here _on the next bound ship_, huh? That sound _good ta’ you_?” 

“...You’ll lemme’ go?” 

“That’s _what I said_,” he hissed, “ya’ got_ two choices_.” 

“...I don’t—they don’t tell me nothin’, I don’t know where it _goes,_” he repeated, “they put a bag on my head when we go out thatta’way.” 

“_Welp_.” 

“Wait-wait-wait!” He interrupted, Troy raising a brow. “The place _stinks_, OK—it’s like, it’s like, _soap—_burns your eyes_, _and really _hot, _and alotta’ _noise_, man, I gotta’ wear ear plugs or I’ll go _nuts. _I go in a back room, and there’s no windows, just a-a, like uh—a _chimney _but it’s got a _grate _on it—that’s _all I got_.” 

“What kinda’ noise? What’s the walls look like?”

“Uh—,” he stammered, Troy raising his eyebrows. “Brick! It’s red brick, real _old building_, there’s bugs, ‘n _bats,_ and it _stinks_. And it’s—_I’unno man_, like, _machines ‘n shit,_ runs 24/7_…? _That’s all I know, _seriously, _I don’t leave the room!” 

Troy studied him, the cook’s chest rising and falling with quick breaths, his unfocused eyes staring back at him in waiting. 

Clenching his jaw beneath the mask, he allowed a quiet exhale, “_What about_—”

A loud _pop_ rang out suddenly, followed by several more repetitious bangs. 

_Nacho—! _

The air erupted into an exchange of gunfire, the cook screeching as he covered his head—dropping and throwing out his arms, gripping a plastic container and hurling it at Troy. 

“Fuck!” He exclaimed in a breaking voice, a cascade of white flakes spraying at him, container clattering on the floor as the cook bolted for the doorway. Troy turned his head away, shaking off the substance as he twisted at the hip, firing—powerful gunfire bellowing as the bullet blew a hole through the wall. A terrified shriek left the cook as it narrowly missed him, sending shrapnel of corrugated metal flying. Troy ducked back through the threshold, close on his heels and sprinting after him as he barreled across the warehouse for the front door. Another sudden shot suddenly rang his ears—Troy immediately ducking as blood splattered from the cook’s emaciated body, two more shots to follow, echoing off the walls. 

The cook froze, gurgling, eyes wide with more _confusion_ than agony, before sinking to his knees and crumpling to the floor. Troy’s wrist snapped ahead, finger on the trigger, before he recognized the height of the silhouette in the doorway. 

He exhaled with tight lungs, heart pounding, but relieved. Pushing the hood back, he combed a hand through his sweaty hair, “You _a’ite_?” 

Nacho nodded with solemn eyes, lowering his gun. “Two Carnales outside,” he replied in a modest voice, before taking a breath. Stepping into the light, he grimaced at the scene. “..._Is handled_.” 

Troy nodded a few times, gaze softening, before he tilted his head to peer at the dying man at his feet. He choked out his final breaths, face-down on the filthy floor, blood steadily pooling away from him. 

With a vacant stare, Troy tucked his revolver into his belt, glancing back up at Nacho. 

“..._Thanks_, man.” He told him, quietly. “Let’s get goin’ on torchin’ this joint. I managed to get some info on the...the _uh..._“ he paused as he felt a bizarre numbness turn into tingling over his arm. _Sunburn. _“About the _factory. _Our guy here’s..._was, _a cook. I got some clues, but nothin’..._nothin’ uh_...hang on, _what in the_…? 

His arm began to itch, and rubbing his thumb over it, it suddenly erupted into aggressive _searing._

“_Ah—ah, fuck!_” He yelled, pain rapidly multiplying. His eyes darted to his exposed forearm, his reddened skin blistering and peeling, some of the flaky granules pooled in his bunched sleeve sprinkling down as he moved. 

Nacho’s attention snapped to him, alarmed. 

“_Ow—ow—shit!”_

He immediately gripped the bottom of his sweatshirt, yanking it over his head in a frenzy. Struggling, Nacho stuffed his gun into his sweatshirt pocket and ran to his aid, grabbing the hood and tearing it from his shoulders, pitching the wadded cloth away from them. 

“¡_Habla, habla! _What’s wrong_?_” 

“He _threw some—some shit the at me, _I thought it was just _salt, _or somethin’, I dunno’..!” Troy stammered, panicking, gripping his arm with white knuckles and swatting the powdery flakes off of him, doing nothing to stop the spread of hot welts. “_Fuck_—ow! _What the_—?_” _His voice broke away into pained cracking as Nacho immediately snatched his wrist and pulled it into view, leaning close. 

“_Potasa,” _he spat, grabbing him and shoving him along to the door. 

“_What—_?” They ran through the cool night air, hair whipping in their faces, Nacho pulling him behind through the mist down to the bank, hurrying through weeds and foliage to the cement quay. 

“_¡Apúrate!” _he ordered, “You have to wash it!_” _He forced him down to the edge, Troy dropping to the bank and plunging his arm into the river with a sudden yelp. 

Hissing between his teeth, grunting in pained murmurs, he collapsed into the grass, slamming his left fist into the dirt a few times as tears stung and threatened. Pulling down the mask, he panted in the fresh air, slumped and arm draped over the edge into the current. 

Nacho quickly crouched beside him, dunking his hands into the frigid water and hastily scrubbing them clean. 

“_Habla—_” He asked urgently. “How bad’s it hurt, güerito? _Talk to me._”

“..._Ugh_,” was his response, as he brought his other hand under his cheek, propping it out of the silt and dirt. “..._Da’fuck_?” 

“_Nasty stuff_,” Nacho nodded, “flakes means _hidróxido de potasio_. Makes sense.” 

“..._Oh, uh-huh_?” He mumbled with mock enthusiasm, in a slightly higher voice. “_Sounds great_.” 

“...You gotta’ _stop this_,” he urged, quietly, worry in his raspy voice. “I leave you alone for _two minutes _and this happen _again, _you know what could’a happen if it got _in your eyes?_ It ain’t _worth it, _it’s just _drugs an’ turf_. Shit _changes hands everyday_.”

“_Yes mother_,” he droned, slapping away a mosquito. “If I’da just _shot him,_ we wouldn’t know _shit _right now.” 

“We _still_ don’t _know shit_!” Nacho balked, incredulously, making him scoff. “You tell _me_ to use care, while _you no care none_?” 

“That’s _different.” _

Nacho sighed and shook his head, flicking the water from his hands. He leaned back on his heels, tracking his arms over his knees, peering out at the bay. The air was calm, the rushing water of the river just beneath them, a ferry approaching the harbor. He eventually turned his attention back to Troy, who was pressing his forehead into his knuckles now, _feeling as equally stupid as he was irritated_.

_Should’ve just shot him—again. _

Nacho reached over, patting his back as he stood, prompting Troy to raise his head. 

“I’m going to set up,” he informed. “...For the _fireworks. _Stay put, keep the arm in the water. I’ll come get'chu.” 

“Wait—what if more guys show up?” 

“Yo te protegeré.” 

“_No—_I mean _you.” _

“I got it.” He nodded, before gesturing back to his arm. “Fifteen minute in the water, no less.” 

“Ya’ stickin’ me in _fuckin’_ _time-out?” _Troy called over his shoulder as Nacho stepped up the bank, hearing his sandals crunching in the grass. “Hey!” 

He turned to look, but couldn’t see beyond the slope. Frustrated, he sighed, wincing as he squeezed his hand into a fist in the water, the pain numbing. 

Nacho hurried back to the warehouse, going around to the back and finding the first dead Carnale, picking up his gun and stuffing it in his belt. He lifted his wrists, dragging the body through the dirt to the front entrance, leaving him with the cook. The second was a much larger man, and with a heavy breath, Nacho straightened his back and bent his knees, locking his arms around his chest and dragging him to join the others. 

He stepped away, looking at the three of them lying there, before shaking his head and closing the door behind him. 

Walking back to the truck, he passed the first warehouse surrounded in lumber—pausing to look at the tank, and then the worn paint on the side of the building. Grabbing a rock, he threw it over the chain-link fence before climbing it, retrieving his battering ram of choice again. Approaching the door—_a simple door knob lock—_he smashed the rock against it until it broke free. Stepping back, he kicked beneath it, the door flying open with a loud bang. 

Taking the flashlight from his back pocket, he clicked it on, waving away the dust in his vision. Squinting, he stepped through rows of shelves full of metal tins and plastic drums, before he angled the beam on the far wall, settling on a rinse station and first-aid kit. He walked to it, carefully slipping his fingers beneath the old metal casing and opening it, pleased to find gauze, tape, and antiseptic, all of which he stuffed in his pockets. As he turned to leave, a drum of paraffin caught his attention. 

Curious, he blinked away more dust, approaching the stacked shelving it rested under. Working his sleeve down to cover his hand, he swiped it across a plastic jug with a yellow tint, before using his thumb to wipe clean a sticker, revealing the faded label. Tilting his head, he mouthed the words, before his eyebrows raised. 

Turning, he quickly searched the shelf behind him, muttering to himself under his breath, standing on his tip-toes to reach the one above. He scanned the shelves and rummaged through the various containers, only pausing to hold the flashlight between his neck and shoulder to read a label. 

Exiting the warehouse, he hurried back down the hill to the lab with the jug and a clear bottle in hand, occasionally glancing around for reinforcements. Re-entering the building, he stepped around the bodies to the equipment, leaning carefully to search the benchtops. 

Troy propped himself on his elbow, antsy and craving a cigarette. _But a drink wouldn’t hurt, either. _His arm was numb by now from the icy river, and he pulled it from the water, nervous at what he might find. Holding it up to the glow of the harbor lights, he was _pleased to see it was still there and not stripped to the bone, _but he winced at what remained. A substantial swath of his right forearm was deeply reddened, but not too serious. However, there were several smaller second-degree burns that left raw, pea-sized patches of skin, open to the air and stinging. He opened and closed his hand anxiously, but opted to rejoin Nacho. 

Wandering back up the hill, he noticed the door ajar and noise inside, and his left hand lingered at the handle of his gun. 

Seeing him there as he worked, he quirked a brow, Nacho having rolled up his sleeves and donned gloves from the first-aid kit, gathering containers of drain cleaner and setting them out on the cleared bench. 

“...Midnight snack?” 

Nacho turned, seeing him there and waving him over. 

“Cure your arm with this,” he said as he took the medical supplies from his pocket, setting them all in his hands at once. “And call Samson for me, I have some questions.” 

“Wh—? In that order?” 

“_Apúrate_, por favor. I have to think.” 

Troy did as he asked, taking a few moments to dress his burns and retrieve his phone, watching Nacho with a raised eyebrow as he dialed. 

“...Hey—Samson? Yeah man, sorry to bother ya’ so late, I’m uh—out on business with Nacho,” he said as he looked at the floor. “He’s got some questions for ya—Nah, I dunno’. I’m gonna’ put him on, ‘kay—?” 

After a moment, Troy nodded, before handing the phone off to Nacho, who quickly took it and brought it to his ear. 

“¿Bueno—? Sí, sí, tengo una pregunta para ti,” he rattled off, Troy furrowing his eyebrows. 

_Of course Samson knew Spanish; everybody knew Spanish except for him. _

Scratching the back of his head, he felt _utterly useless _as Nacho nodded, checking labels on antifreeze and making trips back and forth between the two rooms. Eventually their discussion ended, Nacho hanging up, beginning to carefully pour chemicals into a flask. 

Troy gently folded his arms, watching silently as Nacho shook baking soda into a separate container. He leaned up to go into the other room again, returning with a _turkey baster of all things_, using it to delicately suck up a globular substance more resembling _phlegm_ that had collected on the bottom of the flask. 

With steady hands, he gently squeezed it into a water bottle, until it was about ¼ of the way filled. 

Exhaling, clearly anxious, he calmed himself as he stepped away from the bench, the bottle resting there, light revealing its yellow tinge. 

Troy raised his hand, _as if he were a student,_ Nacho’s focused composure breaking into chuckling as he looked at the other’s childish, sarcastic expression. 

“_Sorry_,” he told him, stripping off the gloves and wiping the sweat from his forehead. “...How’s your arm?” 

“Fuck that—_what’s all this?_ All the _science-y shit_, don’t leave me hangin’ here, man, fill me in.” 

Nacho met his dark eyes, an ornery glint in his. “I solved the problem of Cecil Park’s fortifications.” 

“Oh yeah?” He shifted his weight to the other foot as Nacho handed him back his phone. “With your meth backwash over there?” 

Nacho’s smile was clear, as he turned around to look at the bottle, proudly. “I made nitroglycerin.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! A couple things to go over in this end note bit here. I know it's been quite a while since this was updated! My job and shit got in the way. Not to mention this entire mission was rewritten several times, with thousands of words ending up on the cutting room floor (that might outnumber the chapter itself.) It took me a good bit to decide how to proceed to keep it believable and entertaining, and I do think I struck a decent balance. The next chapter is halfway done already, so it will be out in a much more timely fashion. 
> 
> I've enjoyed playing on the characters' strengths and weaknesses so far, and now I'm really able to get into the meat and potatoes of their personalities and individual traits as the story goes on and they get to know one another better. It's a lot of fun discovering and actualizing that feeling I have into tangible words. I apologize if my Spanish isn't perfect, as always, I learn more as I write and watch soap operas, lol. I also do believe my chemical know-how is accurate, but it's been a while since I had a class. It was fun translating these things into Spanish so poor Nacho could try to explain it back again in English. It's hard when you know the technical terminology in one language, but only the layman language in another, so I tried to capture that--even if my experience is from the reverse-end. You get it. 
> 
> I ALSO know there is no interior door inside your Mission Beach house's garage in SR1. There also isn't a visible bathroom, but I added that too, because duh. I scoped out the two drug labs in this mission in the game, and I've tweaked some things to keep it more on the realistic side, so, gimme' some wiggle room here. 
> 
> Anyway, this was a long one, too. I wanted something really substantial after that long wait. The next one will probably be chonky too. Enjoy 👀


	14. Crash-Course

Troy stared at him, his mouth opening and closing, before it settled into a line. He lifted a hand, preparing himself to speak, as Nacho continued to admire the _seemingly innocuous_ _bottle of snot. _

“So—correct me if I’m wrong, but ain’t _nitroglycerin_ the shit they use for, uh…?” 

“Blasting,” he nodded. 

“Right—_‘kay_, glad we’re on the same page. And ya’ wanna’...?” 

“Load the truck with this and the barrels of paraffin and crash it into the Cecil Park lab.” 

Troy rubbed his beard with a wide-eyed stare, focused on the disgusting floor, a sinking sensation in his chest. “...So, uh, couple’a questions for ya’ here, man, uh...yeah—_are you outta’ your fuckin’ mind?” _He barked, Nacho raising an eyebrow. “_Huh? _You were nervous about blowin’ up that tanker and now ya’ wanna’ throw_ fuckin’ dynamite _at a building in the middle of _fuckin’ town_? Are ya’_ fuckin’ batshit, _or _what_?” 

“It ain’t dynamite,” Nacho reminded. “...That would work better.” 

“_What’s this_, a fuckin’ _cartoon?” _

“We don’t have _much options_.” He argued, calmly. “No matter _what we do, _the ending result will be the same. If I can shorten how close _we gotta’ be to it_, I’m _going to_.” 

“_Nuh-ah, _what about the people that ain't got nothin’ to do with this, huh? _Whattabout ‘dem?_ You lived out that way—!”

“And I know what goes on there,” he countered with stern eyes, “_Confíenme, _it will find the _right people; _this will be _easier to control _than the tank.” 

Troy gestured with open arms to the surrounding lab, “This is goin’ _way beyond _a _drive-by _or a _fire, _or a fuckin’ drug lab blowin’, man_—_the _Feds’ll_ be _all over this_, y’know that, right? If they _ain’t _right nowwith the Coast Guard.” 

“_Let them_,” Nacho replied with raised brows, dark eyes catching all of the dim, overhead light. “They be the problem of _los hermanos Lopez_.” 

“_Risky, _Nacho,” Troy warned, sternly. “That’s _real fuckin’ risky_.” 

“I call it a _resource_,” he took a step toward him. “If it give Lopez a headache, I don’t care by what means. If they investigate these fires, then they also investigate the locations and who own them, too.” 

“Or who _done it, _man. I ain’t down for _25-to-life_, how’s 'bout _you_, huh?” 

“Escuchame,” Nacho rephrased, placing a hand on his shoulder, “...Dex doesn’t get how this people do things. We need them to lose control, look unreliable and _stupid. _The _Feds_?” Shrugging, he met his gaze. “_Embarrassing_. Is embarrassing that there was ever a crumb to follow, and that’s what we doing; we leaving little breadcrumbs, ¿sabes? We leave so many, they can’t clean them up faster than we scatter them. La DEA, FBI, ain’t gonna’ give a shit about who left the trail; what they gonna’ wannu’ know is where it leads_._” 

Troy studied him, and the resolve in his voice, coupled by a spark of genuine assurance_. _

“...Ya’ don’t think they might, _maybe,_ be a _little bit interested?” _He challenged, coyly, “_Hm?_” 

“No. People like these Carnales are only caught because they fucked someone. That is fact. Every time, every lead, every tip, is because someone woke up and got _tired of taking shit today, _so they talk. They depend on this, and pay _out the ass_ to have it.You think Lopez can secure any deals when the Feds are breathing down his neck?” Troy flexed his jaw, unmoving. “Where are we?” Nacho peered at him, earnestly. “Not a major city, not the Gulf, Texas, or California. How many you think they can pay to send out here?” 

“...A’ite, fine.” He nodded, bluntly, after a moment. “...I get your point. I dunno’ if I _like it,_ but I get it.” Exhaling through his nose, shortly, “Whatta’ we gotta’ do?” 

Nacho moved away with a warming expression. “...So,” he returned to his earlier thought, “...I can’t control nitroglycerin—it’s _dangerous_, and could blow us up if we so much as hit a _pothole_.”

“Oh—_yeah, great!” _Troy smiled, pleasantly. “Lucky for us, Stilwater ain’t got none of those.” 

“_Pero,” _Nacho continued, flicking his eyes at him. “You give me an idea. Come with me, I need your help.” 

“_My help?_” Surprised_, and suddenly feeling smart_, he shrugged. “Whatcha’ need _me_ for, I don’t—”

“You can reach tall shelves.” 

“..._Oh_.” 

“_Vamos_,” He grinned, ushering him toward the door. 

Returning to the warehouse across the yard, they climbed the fence, ducking inside the door and into the dusty halls. Nacho retrieved his flashlight, illuminating their path, Troy glancing around at the towering shelves stacked high in forgotten chemicals, squinting through the dust. 

“What we _lookin’ for,_ man? We can’t dick around here, more Carnales might be on the way.” 

“_Material aislante_,” Nacho replied, pondering. “It’s um…you know what you pack inside the walls of a house?” 

“The fuzzy pink shit?” 

“_¿Que?” _

“_Y_’know—come in big rolls?” Troy tried. 

“Pues..._lo que sea, _güey_, _what's that called?” 

“Insulation.” 

“Sí,” he nodded. “We looking for _insulation.” _

“_Ah_.” Troy aimlessly followed, glimpsing the remains of a flytrap hanging from the ceiling. “What kind? Cuz’ if ya’ want that shit, we can take a sledgehammer to a wall—”

“No, I need something specific; a few things would _work, _but this would be best.” Troy watched him as they rounded the corner, entering another connected room with longer shelves stacked in lumber and hardware. Forgotten bags of fertilizer collected dust alongside drums of industrial detergents and pesticides. 

“Well—guess this is where they were fillin’ their shoppin’ list,” Troy muttered, his voice carrying. 

“I need, um…” Nacho clicked his tongue, “...Is used to kill bugs—a white powder, like, looks like _baby powders_, can buy it anywhere.” 

“Is it gonna’ melt my other arm off? Cuz’ _I need that_.” 

“No, no, is harmless. Is made of um…? No lo sé.” He shone the light on some tall metal grates, stacked in bags. “...Here,” he said, turning and handing him the flashlight. “I’m going to find paper and tape.” 

“We doin’ _crafts,_ now?” 

“Mmm—something like that,” he nodded, tapping his arm and briskly heading back into the other room. Troy sighed, lifting the light, approaching the shelves. 

He found the pesticides, opting to start there. Skimming half a dozen labels, all professing to _nuke the problem_ in one fashion or another—one bottle had already tipped over and leeched a massive sticky stain on the concrete. Angling the beam over the bottom shelf, he found the natural alternatives in bulk packaging, _neem oil—whatever that was—_and various types of soaps, before he spotted the stamped print on a particular waterproof bag. 

Tilting his head, he crouched—

_Diatomaceous Earth _

Leaning up, with his arms resting on his knees, he thought to himself a moment before grabbing the bag, hooking his fingers in the crinkling corners and dragging it out with a heave. He read the side, blinking through a puff of dust—“Oh,” he muttered quietly, “_Silica..._he meant _silica. _Hey—!” He called, voice echoing. “Na-_cho_, c’mere!” 

Nacho hurried back, a ray of ominous harbor light from outside streaking over him as he cautiously crossed the floor, finding Troy squatting there and waving him over. “_Hey, _this’s _diatomite_, man,” He explained, as Nacho lowered to his side. “Shit’s basically pure silica.” 

“Eh?” 

“_Diatoms_—they’re a uh, a lil’ sea critter, er—_plankton_. These guys lived a bajillion years ago, so’s a, uh..._y’know,_ it’s _fossils_, and they _mine _it, like rocks. _Point is,” _he shook his head to regain his train of thought, “They put it in _bricks_ ‘n shit for_ furnaces, _and uh, _cat litter_. This’s gotta’ be it.” 

“Sí, sí,” Nacho nodded, taking out his knife and pinching the bag, cutting a meager slit. Some of the loose white powder spilled out, rubbing it between his fingers beneath the light. Nodding, he smiled, “You’re right. This should be enough.” 

Grabbing the bag, he lifted it quickly and threw it over his shoulder, hurrying back into the other room with Troy following. 

They went behind the lab warehouse, backs to the wall and facing the water, Troy lingering near the corner to watch the road and hill for approaching headlights.

Nacho made several trips in and out of the lab, before setting up in the grass, the flashlight resting on a cinder-block behind him. He sat down and folded his legs, layering sheets of old newspaper and rolling them into a tube in his hands, entirely in silence. 

Troy watched him work, occasionally glancing away from the street, quirking a brow anxiously. He dug his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shaking one loose and taking it between his lips, patting down his jeans for his lighter. Huffing to himself, _must’ve dropped it, _Nacho dipped his head and searched his pocket, before tossing him his. 

Troy caught the stainless flip lighter, turning it over in his hand. 

_Suits a firebug. _

He cupped his hands and lit his cigarette, Nacho securing the paper’s edge with electrical tape. Left with the sound of crinkling paper, Troy exhaled a stream of smoke, immediately calming, pressing his shoulder to the building. 

“...'Kay, I'll bite,” he commented, as Nacho focused with amused eyes. “Whatcha’ doin’ _now? _Ya’ ain’t makin’ Roman candles, I take it._” _

“Like I said; you give me an idea.” He folded the bottom half of the paper tube in on itself, sealing one end. “Nitroglycerin is volatile alone. Soak it in something, and it become safe to move. Then you have dynamite.” 

"...Yeah, I figured.” Troy took another puff, pinching his cigarette and lowering it to his side, “Do I wanna' know how ya' came across this know-how, _or_…?" 

Slicing open the bag of diatomaceous earth, Nacho used another piece of paper to carefully funnel the lightweight powder into the tube. Flicking black eyes up at him from beneath the fold of his bandana, his gaze turned challengingly fierce.

“...Wha'chu know about mining around the border?" 

"Uh..._not much_, " he shrugged. “Gold rush, ‘n at.” 

“Way before that, muchos años atrás.” He packed the powder down with his thumb, but not too tightly, setting it aside to start on another. “...Y _muchos años después_.” 

“What’s your point?” 

“I come from Barrancas del Cobre, rich in ores. These mines been there for hundreds of years, changing hands over the centuries. In modern times, back in the 60’s, one near my hometown was seized by narcotraficantes. Powerful family, historical, held a lot of sway. What these Carnales can only _dream of_. Stayed that way until the early 90s, when Ultor bought the mine. I was seven or eight, I think.” 

“Ultor?” Troy asked, furrowing his brows. “...Like, ‘_spray-tanned chicks who buy their jeans with holes in ‘em’_, Ultor?” 

“They’re a lot more than a clothing company.” Nacho nodded, smoothing his thumb over another strip of tape. “They’re all more than you think, you just no see it. _Pedro, _the pop company?_” _he chuckled bitterly—_a startling sound coming from him_—as he shook his head. “You see their trucks up and down the canyon, casually _armed_, with access to _everything, _in good with _everyone. _You drove a _truck, _think about what it was full of.” He glanced up at him, through his lashes, before focusing again. “How you think the bulk enter the States? Not a couple’a guys legging it through the desert, can promise that.” 

Troy took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling and tilting his head. He peered at him through the smoke, before his gaze settled on the glittering water behind him. 

_He was right, but he didn’t need him to tell him that. _

“So, you’re from a mining town, then.” He summarized, “Common knowledge?” 

“...I learned ‘bout _dynamite_,” Nacho continued, steadying his quiet voice, “‘cause _Ultor,_ and its partners, and their muscle, blew the shit out of our farms and homes with it. Occupied the ejidos_, _displaced hundreds_._” Some bite moved into his tone. “Leech _cianuro_ in our water and soil, made deals with the narcos to beat locals and protesters.Half the valley couldn’t _read _let alone read _fine print. _Don’t matter ‘cause they took whatever the fuck they wanted anyway, and ‘cause Ultor got friends in high places, the army looked the other way, and...” He shook his head, falling silent and pausing to rub his eyes. 

Troy furrowed his brows, his gaze softening. 

“I..._hey, _uh...ya’ a’ite?”

“_Ay ay_...” Nacho sighed in response, shaking his head again, almost frustrated. “_Perdóname, _I never had to…” He exhaled, terse. “Talk about this.” 

“..._Yeah, _I get it, man, ya’ don’t gotta’ say more._” _Troy dipped his chin, awkwardly, before trying again. “...Sorry_. _” 

“_Mundo aparte._” Nacho muttered, before lowering his hand and resuming his work. “...I do what I have to. So do you.” He looked up at him, Troy flexing his jaw. “Everyone _does_. And they gonna’ get it_; lo juro con mi vida_, these Carnales are_ done for_.” 

“..._Why,_ though? Now, I _gotta’ _ask this.” Troy interjected, “By the sound of it, ya’ haven’t even been in Stilwater long. This shit’ll get ya’ _killed, _man_. _Lookit’ them guys,” he nodded toward the lab, “ya’ think they knew they were gonna’ _die today_? Ya’ want that to be you_?_” 

“I couldn’t do anything beyond a couple fires back home. Too _little_, too _scared_, too _whatever._” He shrugged. “For better or worse, I’m stuck here. Reason _enough,_ don’tchu think?”

Shaking his head, Troy scoffed, taking another nervous puff of his cigarette. Hissing between his teeth, smoke pooling, he fidgeted. “_Nah_. There’s places _worth it,_ and this ain’t _one of ‘em_, Nacho, believe me.” 

“That’s why you think so, ‘cause nobody fought for it.” Finishing another tube, he tugged at the loose fabric at his knees so he could get to his feet. “Julius_ is_, though.” He added with a grunt, “I believe in that.” 

Troy watched him as he crossed the grass, looking at the ground as he carried the tubes into the lab. His lips parted to speak, but his words fell away as Nacho disappeared inside the glow of fluorescent light. 

Left to finish his cigarette, he smoked quietly in brooding dimness, eyes on the road again. 

Nacho returned some time later, carefully carrying four improvised sticks of dynamite, lacking the wicks and duct-taped together. Gesturing with a nod for him to follow, Troy stepped on his cigarette, doing so without a word. 

Approaching the truck, Nacho neared the front bumper, crouching down. Watching him as he started taping the dynamite in place behind it, Troy chewed his lip and leaned against the fender. 

“... How's we gonna’ crash this thing into the lab?” He realized, “Someone’s uh... _gotta’ drive_.” 

“Er, _pues_...” his voice trailed off, without looking up. “I don’t have blast caps for these, so…”

_Jump. _

“Yeah,” Troy muttered, peering at his hunched form and all his black hair splayed out beneath the bandana, reminiscent of the bottom half of a broom. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” 

“I’ll do it,” He assured, “I’ll let you out on the street so you can cover me.” 

Troy shook his head immediately. “No, _ya' ain't_.” 

Nacho leaned up, looking at him over his shoulder. “...You got a_ better idea_?” 

“Yeah,” He replied, sharply, “_I’ll do it.”_

Stunned, Nacho furrowed his brows, “You had _surgery_—” 

“_Whatever,” _He waved him off, turning to watch the street again. “It’s fuckin’_ road-rash, _just keep me from gettin’ _shot_.” 

“I can’t let—” 

“_Forget it_, Nacho, I been goin’ along with your shit this whole time and that’s where I put my foot down, a’ite?” He faced him again, raising a hand, “Ya’ gotta’ work, right? Got a job to do, gotta’ hustle, ‘n all that? A lotta’ our intel depends on ya’ _keepin’_ that job, and I’m already banged up, so I’ll_ handle it_. I bailed outta’ a car before.” 

“..._¿Ah sí?_” 

“_Yes_, and it’s about as _fun as it sounds.” _He blinked, turning back around. “Just _hurry it up_, c’mon. _Ándale_. We ain’t got _all fuckin’ night._” 

_Oh, God. _

Nacho lingered on the outline of his face in the harbor lights, somehow awaiting a waver in his flat expression, before lowering his eyes to the gravel. He quietly turned, leaning down to finish securing the dynamite. 

Steadying it in place, he stood and gestured to the warehouse again with a breath, “We need the paraffin. As much as we can.” 

“Paraffin’s _kerosene, _right? That an explosive?” 

“No, is _combustible._” Nacho shook his head, the two of them walking, footsteps crunching in the gravel. “Is not as effective as gasoline, but is safer to move and will help the fire spread. What makes my Molotovs dangerous is the thickener, my go-to is motor oil.” 

“You wanna’ put that in there, too?” 

“No need,” he said as they re-entered the doorway, crossing the dusty floors to the blue barrels lined up beneath the shelving. “Once the truck hit, the dynamite will do the work, it _should_ cause _some _sparks..._pues_..._maybe_. The paraffin’s just extra.” He glanced at him in the dark, as Troy moved toward one of them, gripping it and scooting it away from the wall. “...Will be a good idea to get out on time.” 

“Yeah-_ha_,” Troy snickered, dryly. “_No shit_.” 

“I don’t know if this will take out the building,” he added as he joined him, walking a barrel away from the wall. “...But it’ll definitely get their attention.” 

“We capped their cook,” Troy grunted as the metal scratched the concrete, “and this lab’s goin’ up, plus the supply here.” He nodded at their surroundings, “After the guy you got at the traphouse and the cook, that leaves just one that I can think of that might know this shit. Used to be in my old crew. My guess is, he moved up in the food-chain and probably runs our elusive factory—that’d be a bonus. Once we get _him_, the Carnales better hope they wrote down their recipe for this garbage. Otherwise, their synthetics market’s _fucked until further notice_. I’m pretty sure this'll be enough.” 

“Claro,” Nacho pushed the bin toward the door, angling it to get it over the tackstrip, the kerosene inside sloshing. “We let this send a message, then.” 

“Six-thousand gallons of flaming gas, three dead guys, torched supply, and _dynamite_? Yeah,” He half-chimed, “That says _somethin'_.” 

Nacho got his barrel out into the dirt, pausing to straighten his back and pull up his sleeves, ducking back into the building. Troy struggled with his, only managing to get it out after Nacho returned with an old rickety dolly clattering behind him. He curbed his amusement, Troy glancing at him with a quirked brow, “...Mine’s _fuller_, a’ite.” 

Saying nothing, Nacho slid the dolly beneath the barrel, bracing it with his foot, before tilting it back and rolling it to the truck. The two of them loaded the barrels, four in total, Nacho using bungee hooks to link them together in place. Lifting the tailgate with a slam, he picked up the gas tank, Troy standing uneasily with the Molotovs. 

“So...this's it,” Nacho said as they walked toward the tank, still waiting for them as a dark silhouette out in the yard. “The plan is to make a trail of gas from the tank to the buildings, a Molotov in each to start the fire.” 

“Then we run like hell,” Troy finished, eyes lidding, feeling a mosquito hovering near his ear. “...Sure ya’ know what you’re doin’?” 

“...Mmm, _más o menos_. Go get the truck started, we won’t wannu' stick around.” 

He uncapped the gas can, gesturing for Troy to stay back, as he began splashing it over the grass in wide strokes, careful to keep it off of himself. He doused a trail to the warehouse, Troy wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell and walking back to the truck. Nacho covered the lumber stacked against the building, hearing the engine turn over with a sputter a few moments later. Satisfied, he returned to the tank, spilling more through the grass and gravel to the lab, emptying the last of it. He threw the spent can aside, Troy exiting the truck and leaving it idling. 

Climbing the hill back to his side again, Nacho unzipped his hooded sweatshirt. 

“Take this,” he said as he shrugged out of it, “When you bail out the truck you wannu' be covered up.” 

Unable to argue, Troy took it and put it on, zipping it as Nacho picked up a Molotov. Holding it away from himself, he extended the other hand, “...My lighter?” 

Troy patted down his pockets, finding it and returning it to him. Nacho nodded calmly as he flicked it open, staring at it, before raising black eyes to him. “...Ready?” 

Swallowing anxiously, his lips flattening into a line, Troy nodded and held out his own Molotov so Nacho could light it. He flicked a calloused thumb over the lighter, watching the bright flame illuminate his hand and gleam in the steel, before holding it beneath the frayed cloth. 

Catching, the flame spread up the fibers, quickly gaining size. Troy stepped back, holding it out, pulse quickening as he lobbed it at the warehouse. The glass shattered at the lumber pile, molten flame spilling out across the ground and splashing the building, the trail of gasoline igniting rapidly. Nacho briskly lit his own, taking a step back, hurling it with a powerful lunge toward the lab. It soared, shattering at a much greater speed, glass and fire spraying over the corrugated steel and trash bins. 

“_¡Vámonos! _Go!” He pushed Troy toward the truck, hurriedly lighting the third Molotov and throwing it at the tank. The fourth he threw unlit, breaking and adding to the bellowing flame, enveloping the tank and its metal stands. The two of them sprinted for the truck, still idling, Troy climbing into the driver’s seat and reaching over to help Nacho in. He floored the gas as they barely got the doors shut, front end pitching as he turned through the grass onto the dirt road, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. Nacho whipped around, squinting through the dirty back window of the _Thoroughgood, _black smoke trailing into the sky, the bright glow of orange, violent flames licking at the hills. He anxiously watched the barrels clanking in the truckbed as they drove, Troy swerving to avoid dips in the packed dirt, but they held in place. 

“_Easy_,” Nacho warned, Troy nodding aggressively. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I _get it,_” He barked, “Gimme’ a fuckin’ _break, _there’s _fuckin’ dynamite in my face.” _

“_Cálmate, _I think is working,” he turned again, his reflective eyes scanning the horizon, gauging the flames from their distance, “...Is catching _fast._” 

“Fast? _How fast’s fast_?” His voice broke as he glanced at the rearview mirror. 

“Troy, _calm down, por favor, _there’s a wind from the _harbor_; I didn’t think of it.” 

“Oh, yeah, what’s a lil’ _miscalculation, _huh_? No biggie, _man_.” _

Nacho chewed his lip, squinting, the smoke picking up, wisps of it rolling out across the open fields. Suddenly, a jet of flame shot up into the air, visible from their distance, lighting up the sky. “...Erm...” 

“_‘Erm?’,” _Troy snapped, “What’s ‘erm?’ Da’fuck’s ‘_erm!’ _Nacho_? Huh?” _

“_…Uy,” _He muttered, watching the smoke darken, as the jetstream lowered, but then shot back up again, higher and brighter, white smoke pooling and beclouding as fire enrobed the tank. “You might wannu’ _step on it._” 

“This thing was made in fuckin’ _‘62,_ this’s fast as it fuckin’ _gets!” _

“_¿Me estás chingando—_?” 

“Hey! You picked out this _heap_, remember?” 

“¡Podrías haber sido más_ claro_!” 

“Don’t talk to _me_ ‘bout bein’ fuckin’ _clear _when you’re speakin’_ another fuckin’ language!” _

A deafening _pop_ interrupted him, a sudden gust knocking against the back end of the truck, jerking the wheel as the shockwave broke sound, pillars of smoke and fire shooting up into the sky, barreling and setting it ablaze. Wood, shrapnel and stone cascaded as the cloud grew, engulfing the warehouse and fields, several smaller pops and acrid smoke crackling as tanks and chemicals ignited. 

“Holy _shit!” _Troy exclaimed, glancing at his mirrors as he attempted to steer through the blinding smoke, flaming debris battering the ground behind them as the droplets of petrol rained down. Nacho chewed his lip as he watched, eyes illuminated in the glow, a glint of excitement settling in them. 

“...Told you,” he commented, with a hint of a grin, feeling the adrenaline down to his fingertips as he drummed them on the seat. The initial explosion began to taper off and dissipate, leaving the burning remains, the flames deep and aggressive as they gained distance. Troy turned abruptly onto a paved street, weaving behind an abandoned building as he re-entered town, continuously checking behind him. He noticed people running out onto their back porches, but he had no intention of sticking around for the aftermath. 

Pulling up his respirator to cover his face, he signaled for Nacho to do the same, both hands nervously gripping the wheel again as he raced toward Cecil Park, the glow of blooming fire still caught in the glass’ reflection. The wailing, eerie chorus of firetrucks and first responders filled the air, so loud and numerous they echoed across the district and the streets, spotlights caught in the clouds as they sped over the bridge. 

Troy kept to the backroads, sweat beading his forehead—unsure if it was his own rush of adrenaline or the verge of a heart attack. Nacho took the assault rifle from the duffel bag, throwing the strap over his shoulder as he reloaded his pistol, stuffing it in his waistband and quickly checking the barrels behind them again. 

“Put the bag on, across your chest, it will soften the impact.” He told him, Troy nodding as he sucked in a breath, eyes focused on the road. “What’s the top speed?” 

“On the truck?” Glimpsing the speedometer, “I can’t get it higher than 65.” 

“Think you can hit the building at 50?” 

“You mean _the truck _hit the building at 50_?” _He squawked, Nacho nodding hurriedly to correct himself. “Yeah, pretty sure, man,” he assured, sarcastically. “The tricky part’s _surviving.” _

“I can still—” 

“No,” Troy retorted, turning onto the main street, Cecil Park’s painted adobe architecture coming into view. The second warehouse, looming on the corner beneath the highway, sat behind a spacious parking lot stacked in skids and out-of-commission delivery trucks, guarded by a single chain link fence and gate. Troy turned the rattling truck down a road a straightway across from it, deviating from his lane so he could turn around to face it. 

He braked, the truck rumbling and idling, headlights shining down the quiet, empty road, as the remainder of the Barrio slept. 

“Güerito,” Nacho prompted, placing a hand on his shoulder. Troy glanced at him as he steadily exhaled, gripping the wheel with locked fingers, Nacho peering back with sincere eyes. “...Good luck, OK?” 

He hummed in response, chewing his lip beneath the mask, Nacho moving away to open his door, sandals touching down on the asphalt. 

Reaching across the seat, Troy slung the bag over his chest as suggested, opening his door and propping it open with his left foot, taking his magnum from his belt and his phone from his pocket. 

“Here, hang onta’ these,” he tossed them to him, Nacho catching both, nodding. “So uh..._yeah,_” he joked, a short, dry chuckle to follow. “_Be right back.” _

Nacho stepped back, eyes carrying the trace of a smirk as he palmed back the slide of his pistol, shutting the door. Troy pressed the accelerator, the engine revving, watching the dash as the engine heated. He held it, exhaust fumes circling them, the truck steadily overheating. 

Satisfied, he decelerated, propping the door open again. 

_This is stupid. _

He shifted into drive, sucking in a breath. 

_This is stupid._

Pressing the gas, he accelerated down the street, Nacho spinning around with fearful eyes. 

_This is stupid. _

The buildings zoomed past in a blur, picking up speed. His heart pounded, breath held in his lungs as he sped toward the chain-link fence. He winced as the gate collided, busting open with a shrieking rattle, truck charging through the lot and narrowly missing the parking dividers. He didn’t blink, jerking out his leg as the door flung open, straining to hold it against the wind, feeling the razored air whipping at him and catching in his clothes, other hand steadying the wheel as long as possible. Bracing his foot, muscles tense, he squeezed his eyes shut and kicked off from the chassis. 

For several moments _too long,_ he only felt the dizzying displacement of air around him as he tucked his arms and knees, hitting the asphalt on his hip and shoulder, his own elbow knocking the wind from him. He threw himself into a roll, caught in the disorienting shock of pain and torque, the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal exploding behind him as the truck collided.

He didn’t even know when he stopped moving, experiencing a brief jolt of awareness, only to lose it seconds later. After several cycles of this, he lay still and prone on the pavement, the surrounding lot erupted in muted, staccato gunfire and disjointed voices. Fading in and out of consciousness, he urged himself lucid, blurry eyes cracking open and fluttering closed again. Wisps of fire and smoke pooled from the wreckage, gaining fervor and strength as the punctured fuel line sprayed gasoline, catching glimpses between black spots of crumbled concrete and scurrying, chaotic forms. He could see his own hand, sprawled out away from him—_still attached, that’s good—_but lacking any sense on how to _move it, _unable to feel any presence in his body. 

_Until he could._

A burst of pain radiated from the back of his head, an ache so fierce and sharp it sickened his stomach. Groaning, he forced strength into his limbs, dragging his arm back toward himself as the ringing in his ears settled at a higher pitch. Getting his knee to his chest, he attempted to sit up, but only sunk back down to the asphalt again, retching, but resisting the urge to vomit. 

_Have to get out of here. _

Hands suddenly grabbed him, pulling him up and dragging him to his feet. He resisted, alarmed, but when he opened his eyes it was Nacho’s conflagrant gaze staring back at him, wild raven hair caught in the smoke, skin stained in soot. _“¡Vamos, güerito!” _He hooked Troy’s arm over his neck, the blonde staggering and collapsing into him clumsily. “Troy, _por favor,” _he begged, hauling him to his feet again with a sturdy arm and sturdier back, carrying him to the cover of a dumpster. He fired wildly behind them, each gunshot slow and drowsy to Troy as he stumbled, trying to shake the dizziness and nausea away. Nacho shouldered most of his weight, speaking to him in fevered Spanish that he couldn’t catch or comprehend, steadily regaining coherency with each frenzied gunshot rattling his ears. 

When he could lift his head, he spotted the truck halfway through the wall, a crumpled, unrecognizable mass of steel as the interior burned, rubble scattered across the parking lot, the downed shadows of bodies through the smoke and fire. 

“..._Did..._” the muffled words fell from his dry mouth behind the cracked respirator, shaking his head again. “...Did it _work_?” 

“Sí, _too well_,” Nacho huffed, breathless, as he broke his aim and urged him toward the bank. They sprinted for the alley, plumes of smoke filling the streets, making Nacho cough deeply from his chest, squinting through the haze. “_You’re badass,_ güey.” 

“..._Ahh,_” he murmured back, head lulling, his words breaking off into dazed rambling. “_You’re just sayin’ that ta’ make me feel better.” _

“_Oye_, stairs coming,” he alerted, Troy lifting his head to see the corner edge of the metro station fast approaching, the last train for the night waiting at the platform. His knees buckled, but he gripped the banister, hurrying up the concrete steps with Nacho’s aid. The white noise ebbing, his hearing cleared, overtaken in the roar of fire and screech of sirens, attracting a crowd of terrified and awestruck people half-hanging out of their windows. Jaw hanging slack, regaining his wits, Troy peered wide-eyed and horrified at the blazing warehouse. 

“H-holy _fuck,” _Bruised fingers scraped _raw_ snapped to his head, tangling in his hair, police and firetrucks lighting up the horizon, cars on the overhead bridge slammed to a halt. 

“Come _on_,” he ushered, tugging at him, Troy gripping his forearm as he tried to tear his eyes away. They crossed the automatic doors, closing behind them while the intercom played its morbidly cordial, automated departure message, Troy staring at the seat ahead of him in a choked silence. 

Nacho occupied that space, sitting down in a hurry, yanking the respirator down. His cheeks were smeared in grime, blood splattering his T-shirt, rough hands still trembling as he tucked his gun in his belt. The train brakes hissed and squealed, engines humming as it started down the tracks toward Mission Beach, leaving the devastation behind them. 

The train soared, orbs of light blurring beneath them as the urbanized setting dissipated, transforming into sleepy dilapidation. 

Troy raised his head, swallowing over the lump caught in his dry throat. “..._What’d we just do_?” 

“We _fucked ‘em up_,” Nacho replied, wiping his eye with the hem of his collar, shuddering breath slowing. “...I shot a couple guys, but, I don’t know how many I got. It doesn’t matter, _don’t matter_.” He scooted forward on the edge of his seat, leaning toward Troy to peer at the side of his head, hiding a wince. “...Two less labs, a few less _Carnales, _one hell of a _message_, and…” Troy met his gaze, those black eyes returning to their youthful bewilderment. “...I think I owe _you _a_ beer._” 

“Fuck yeah_, ya’ do,” _He groaned, slumping back into the smelly upholstery and hard plastic, grimacing. The back of his head felt cold, damp, and_ itchy_, and reaching to scratch, his fingers brushed stickiness and bits of gravel. Taking his fingers away, peering at them, some hair and congealed blood caught beneath grimy nails. “..._Ah, that’s real nice_." _ Not good. _ "Make it a bottle of _tequila_, huh?” 

A baffled, relieved grin spread over Nacho’s dirty, freckled face, eyebrows upturning into a cautiously _excited _realization of _victory. _

Troy smirked in response, _in wordless, reserved pride, _before closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the window. 

_______

“Ow—_fuck!” _He swore, jerking away, Nacho recoiling with a startled jump. Troy clicked his tongue and hissed between clenched teeth, taking a compulsive drag of his cigarette and bouncing his knee, Nacho sighing and approaching with the cotton swab again. He dabbed iodine at the other's pale eyebrow and inner nose, pressing his tongue to his teeth in an empathetic grimace. Troy sat, aggravated, with slicked dripping hair all washed clean of blood, deep bruising starting to color the Saint _purple. _

“Ya' ain’t tryin’ to paint the_ side of a barn_, man,” Troy griped, “this’s my fuckin’ _face_ we talkin’ ‘bout, here, _asshole.” _

__

“_Ay ay, _basta,_ por favor,” _Nacho scoffed, studded brows furrowing as he wrinkled his nose. “Quit bein’ a_ little bitch _ for five seconds.” 

__

Scowling, he exhaled a stream of smoke away from him, seated at the edge of Nacho’s plaid couch, focusing on the CRT television behind them. Breaking news headlines queued, cutting away to helicopter footage of their _festivities_ as firefighters sprayed down the building and paramedics zipped up black bags full of crimson banners. 

__

Pondering, he waited for any signs of suspects. It wasn’t long before Chief Monroe stood, looking worse for wear, _furious_ and exhausted, with a microphone or two shoved in his face. 

__

The same routine: _can’t go into details, it’s an ongoing investigation, yadda yadda. _

__

_ Which was code, for: ‘I either don’t fucking know, or I know everything.’ _

__

Troy shook his head slowly to himself, bringing the cigarette to his lips again, exhaling a lazy puff. Nacho sat back on his heels, rummaging through his first-aid kit for another bandage, tiny pieces of wax paper littering the open lid as half the package covered the blonde already. 

__

“That’s as good as it gets,” he told him, capping the bottle of iodine. “Lucky you didn’t break nothing.” 

__

Troy reclined, muscles aching,_ back killing him_, wrapped fingers tapping the armrest. 

__

“...The bright side is I forgot _all about_ the burn.” 

__

Nacho snorted, rising to his knees and clicking on a handheld flashlight, gesturing for him to come forward again. “I’m gonna’ heat something to eat. You hungry?” 

__

“Nah,” he dismissed, squinting at the television as he leaned forward slowly, distracted. 

__

“You will be once you smell it,” Nacho ignored, moving in the way so he could shine the light in his eyes. He brought his thumb carefully to his left eyelid, lifting it and shining the light over his pupil, it shrinking to a pin as he flicked it back and forth. He repeated with the right eye, gingerly, his socket and cheekbone aggressively swelling. Troy fidgeted, squeezing his eyes shut and blinking away the bright spots left behind, Nacho switching off the light and shrugging. “Don’t seem to have a concussion.” 

__

“Notoriously _thick-skulled,” _He reminded, glibly, scooting aside to watch the news again. “We got another problem, now. What am I gonna’ tell Dex about this fuckin’ _factory?” _

__

Nacho clicked his tongue, closing the first-aid kit and setting it on the coffee table. “...No lo sé," He replied, stripping off the latex gloves before getting to his feet and shuffling into the kitchen. "I got so caught up in blowin’ shit up I forgot about it.” 

__

“Yeah, ya’ _don’t say?_” Troy chided, amused and glancing at him, before focusing on the news again. “...Even if we _don’t _fuckin’ find it, they’re gonna’ be lickin’ their wounds awhile.” 

__

“As should you,” Nacho countered as he opened his refrigerator, setting a heavy-bottomed earthenware pot onto the stove. Turning the dial, the gas clicking, he set a low flame. “I’ll get you a shirt that don’t got _blood on it. _We should wash everything, or _burn it, _but, I got a washer.” 

__

“Uh-huh, ‘nuff burnin’ shit for one night.” He exhaled smoke, watching as eyewitnesses briefly spoke on the news, spinning tales and more concerned with being on TV. “...Think anyone saw us?” 

__

“Sure, but I promise they ain’t talking.” He crossed the living room to his closet, opening the door and reaching for a folded T-shirt, walking back to the couch and handing it to him. “They much rather deal with an explosion in the backyard than talk to pigs.” 

__

He finished his cigarette, extinguishing it in the top of his empty pop can. With a muttered curse he pulled the bloodied garment over his head, the hooded sweatshirt shredded, substantial holes torn in the knees of his jeans. Changing into the clean T-shirt, he forced himself to sit upright, grunting as he got to his feet. 

__

“...Not like I’m _worried,” _he continued, Nacho gathering his own filthy clothes he’d changed out of earlier. “There’s no way they saw our faces, but, all’s this’s gonna’ do is prop up the earlier case. Word’s gonna’ get out we’re the ones doin’ this.” 

__

“That a _bad thing_?” Nacho questioned, pointedly, as they headed for the garage. Opening the door, they stepped onto cool concrete, Troy turning wistful at the sight of his beautiful car, _all cooped up_, Nacho propping open the lid of the washing machine.

__

"...Well, no, I guess, but," Troy admitted, "...I'd like to keep a low-profile, since, uh...y'know, _Victor_."

__

"Victor?"

__

"Dex brought him up before, the Carnales enforcer. If he can single us out, he's gonna' do it, which wouldn't be a good time."

__

"I'm not afraid," Nacho disregarded, dropping his clothes in. Troy turned, furrowing his brows, approaching the washer and leaning against it.

__

"You should be," he threw in his shirt. "Guy's a _tank_."

__

"You run with him, too?"

__

"_Hell no_," Troy scoffed, incredulously, as he picked up the detergent. "We don't want him catchin' wind of shit, least of all our individual identities."

__

"Are _you_ scared?"

__

"I ain't scared _of_, Nacho, I'm scared _for_. Half our crew's in diapers compared to them, and the other half's still got _banger trainin' wheels on_, a'ite, _you included_. The Carnales outnumber us ten to one. Our upper hand right now is that nobody knows we're mobilizing, yet. As far's they're concerned, you and me's just two vigilantes with a grudge. Well, we're _domestic terrorists_ now, but, that's a technicality."

__

He hooked his thumb beneath the foil slot, shaking some detergent into the washer, Nacho noticing and quietly smirking.

__

“...That almost was your arm,” he snorted.

__

“...Huh?”

__

“Soap. Hidróxido de potasio melts the fat in your skin into soap. Is a strong chemical base, that’s how it goes through things, is not an acid.”

__

“...Are ya’ shittin’ me?” his voice cracked, horrified. “Fuckin’ _soap_? I would’a...? _Naw_, man, you're _fuckin' with me_—” 

__

“Sí, sí, I'm serious," he chuckled, Troy shaking his head in disbelief. "Is a good way to make somebody disappear, if you know what I mean."

__

"I don't wanna' know _how ya' know that_," he almost scolded, as he turned his attention back to the washing machine, watching the multicolored granules sprinkle out of the box and pool on the wadded cloth.

__

He slowly paused as he contemplated his words, hand freezing. Staring at the wall, his lips parted slightly for a moment, closing again.

__

“...Soap." He repeated, stunned. "_Soap_—You’re fuckin’ _shittin’ me_.”

__

“...¿_Qué pasa_?”

__

“Christ, I’m a fuckin’ idiot,” Troy hung his head, his loud sigh transitioning into a _louder groan_. He faced Nacho, who peered back at him, curious and impatient. “It's _detergent_, man," he explained, talking with his hands. "...They’re stashin’ the fuckin' crank in _detergent_.”

__

__

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said I'd be more timely?  
I tried. I did. But then there was a pandemic and I work a warehouse and merchandise, so, I'm all caught up in work BS. I recently got me a wee laptop notebook thing, so that saves a lot of work of trying to type on my phone since I'm away from my PC so much. 
> 
> Anyway, Troy gets banged up a lot, that's a theme. My Troy's greasy and smokes too much and is black and blue half the time. He also secretly loves the ocean and all it contains. There was a single brain-cell shared between them this chapter, so, that's fun. 
> 
> I'm also making real progress in my Spanish. A month or so is a long time. 
> 
> Annnnnd this concludes the first mission of the Carnales with quite literally a bang.


	15. Home Is Where the Posole Is

Nacho observed Troy's pacing from the sofa, wearing holes in his floor with each frustrated saunter, fingers only leaving his hips to scratch at the scruff on his chin. 

Raising his eyebrows, he concealed a smirk, amusement and intrigue subtle in his raspy voice, “How you figure?” 

“Well_ think about it,_ man,” Troy answered, making circles with his hand. “Ya’ said some of your biggest exports are chemicals, right?” 

“Right.” 

“They had fuckin’, what, _that shit_ you were talkin’ ‘bout, the uh, uh,” he snapped his fingers, “_Potato, _whatever—” 

“_Potasa_,” he chuckled, rubbing his forehead beneath the drape of his hair. 

“_Yeah, yeah that_—and the—the uh, that gloopy shit, that clear…? 

“Glycerin...” 

_“Glycerin_! And the fuckin’ _diatomite_, and all them _oils and_, kerosene, _and_ shit—he talked about there bein’ a loud factory that smelled _soapy, _and was real hot. It’s a _detergent plant_, it’s gotta’ be. Look, look,” he crossed the floor with light steps, plucking the box of detergent he’d brought from the garage off the coffee table. Flipping it over, he hunched over to Nacho’s eye-level and pointed a bandaged finger. “_Right here_, manufactured in _fuckin’ _Stilwater—right here on the fuckin’_ island,_ man.” 

Nacho leaned up and tilted his head, brows raising in honest astonishment. “..._Bueno_,” he exhaled, peering at it a moment and then up at him, shrugging stocky shoulders. “_Tengo que admitir_, you got a point_.” _

“Can ya’ call your boss and find out which manufacturers sent shipments of detergents or cleaning products outta' here?” 

Nodding, Nacho took his phone from his back pocket, flipping it open. “...Is almost 2AM,” he set it on the table. “He’s usually there at 5, I can call in the morning.”

“‘Kay, thanks.” Troy sighed, _pent-up and fidgety, _returning the box to the table as well. “...Once we do that, I can call the county clerk’s office and maybe track down a floor plan and get some info on the building. Chances are they ain’t gonna’ be too keen on us sniffin’ around, so, gotta’ keep it brief. Might take_ me some time,_ but... _goddammit_,” he shook his head, sighing again. “...This’s some _shit;_ I can’t believe I didn’t pick it up _sooner_, I don’t…” Bringing his palms to his face, he rubbed his eyes—gently—and raked his fingers back through his hair, interlocking them on top of his head. He stared at the ceiling, watching the fan spin. “It _throws off the dogs_, the weights _can be falsified_, it won’t _react with the shit…_” Another disgruntled sound left him as his arms dropped, continuing to make his rounds. “Who knows how long _they been doin’ this._” 

“You're probably _right, _güey—we'll see if we get a lead in a few hours. Even if he dunno’ nothing, we'll find out for ourselves. Can always just...pick through a _phone book, _I guess.” Nacho encouraged, propping his arms on his thighs. 

Troy worked his jaw, rubbing his mustache, before turning to look at him. “Ya’ mind if I hang here in the meantime? I wanna’ keep track of the news, and we still gotta’ fill Dex in.”

Nacho shook his head, his attention grabbed by the sound of sizzling from the kitchen. The lid on the pot shook, bubbling, broth dripping down into the flame. He rose from the couch with a tired breath, tugging at the knees of his sweatpants that were too long for him. 

“Pretty sure he’ll hear about it, regardless.” He said, a little flat, as he pulled on a dish towel pinched in a drawer. 

“...Is that _reproach_ I hear?” 

Nacho snorted—a short, hushed sound. “I no like talking to him.” 

“_‘Zat right_?” Troy joked, “Not 'cause of _me, _I hope.” 

“Sí, 'cuz of you.” He answered, succinctly, Troy’s smile fading into something more _baffled. _

Pausing, he rolled his lips before biting them. “..._Well_, that’s your call man, but...y’know, I ain’t tryin’ to start shit, here; Dex and I don’t see eye-to-eye all the time, sure, but, _I mean_...” 

“Is OK,” he replied as he brought a couple stacked bowls down from the cupboard, bracing his arm on the counter for the extra height boost. “I hear things, in town....How he treat people, how he do jobs..._or don’t_.” 

“Ah, _gossipin’_, huh?” Troy lifted his chin, amused, “What’s the verdict?’ 

“_Lazy.” _ He retorted, as if it were a _dirty word_, making Troy break into a laugh. Folding his arms, he shook his head and approached the counter, leaning against it. 

“..._Ah, _he’s got _big ideas_. Takin’ _classes_. _Oh, yeah_,” He nodded, in response to Nacho’s arched brow. “Got in on Mayor Winslow’s scholarship program right outta’ high school. Did ya’ know Ben King volunteered the big bucks for that whole thing? Ain’t that _sweet,_ huh? Anyway, nah. He don’t strike me as a lazy-ass. Big _mouth_, bigger _attitude_, but uh..._ambitious_, y’know.” 

“Mmm,” Nacho clicked his tongue, taking a cast iron skillet out of the cold oven, setting it on the stovetop beside the pot. Turning on the flame, he opened the refrigerator and retrieved a plastic bag full of tortillas, pale and uniform. Closing the door, he leaned against it, hovering a palm over the pan’s surface to measure its heat. “How come I never see him do nothing?” 

“_I dunno’, _he’s like, what..._twenty-one_, man.” 

“No es una excusa.” 

“Nah, I agree, I ain’t _excusin’ _him, I’m just sayin’—_can’t believe I’m sayin’ this—_he’s a kid, still lives with his fuckin’ _grandma_ or somethin’. She got a house up that way, or whatever.” 

“I’m _nineteen_,” he shrugged, blunt, opening the bag of tortillas, “and I work for my money.” 

Stunned, Troy’s arms dropped, staring at him as he turned the knob beneath the range, adjusting the flame.

“You’re _what?” _He repeated, in utter disbelief. “You’re _nineteen?” _

“Simón. Twenty in October.” 

“_How the_...? You’re talkin’ ‘bout _cartel shit _and blowin’ up _mines_, and ya’ got a _race car,_” his voice cracked, “I knew you were _young, but—_how many teens got a fuckin’ _‘stache, man—_?” 

“I’m Méxican,” he teased, flashing white teeth and a wide smile, “We _born with them_, you didn’t know?” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Troy muttered, leaning away from the counter and hanging his head, rubbing his palm into his eye socket. Nacho smirked to himself as he tossed in a tortilla, pressing down on it lightly with hardened fingertips before curling them away. 

“Todo _está bien_, güerito.” He reassured, gentler. “No te preocupes por mi. It’s not a big deal.” Troy paced in a small circle until he could smell the toasted corn, chewing the inside of his cheek. He glanced at Nacho’s back as he dragged the tortilla onto a plate, starting on another one. 

Sighing, quietly, he smoothed back his hair. “...Why didn’t ya’ say somethin’ earlier?” 

Nacho watched the tortilla bubble up, before pinching it and helping it flip over with quick fingers. “Would it’ve_ mattered_?” 

“Well, _yeah...e_r..._no...maybe. _I _dunno’, _man._” _

_ Gonna’ kill Julius. _

"You gonna' treat me _different_, now?" 

Returning to his earlier spot, Troy leaned against the counter again, squeezing his sore neck. “No, I ain't, it's just… It bugs the shit outta’ me. There’s a lotta’ young Saints as is, buncha’ kids with nowhere to go. Half of ‘em probably think this’s some fast-track to money and respect.” His head spun with a hundred contemplations of what to say, none of them particularly _coherent._ “...I’m just glad ya’ got off the street. Most kids your age are, uh..._well_, bein’ kids.” 

Nacho moved the hot tortilla to the plate, laying in another and glancing at him, “Ah, ¿si?How old are you, thirty?”

“Might as well be.” 

“Something tells me _you _didn’t have _scholarship and abuela’s house_, either._” _

He furrowed his brows, _caught inarticulate_. Scoffing, he set his hand on the counter, brown eyes cast in a vacant stare on the peeling wall paneling. 

“...We ain’t talkin’ ‘bout_ me_, here,” he replied, eventually. “A’ite—we’re talkin’ ‘bout you.” 

“_Pues, _I been taking care of myself a long time. Not always been so _easy_, but,” he looked at him, sincerely. “I got health,_ freedom_, a roof now—like you say, a _bitchin’ car_, two hands. _Food_,” he gestured to the burners, before wrapping the pan’s handle in the towel, flipping the blistered tortilla over, “and a friend to _share it with_, ¿_sabes_?”

Troy lowered his eyes to the multicolored tiles, feeling the cold and uneven grout through his socks. 

_‘Friend.’_

_Some friend. _

Using the towel to take the lid off the pot, a waft of steam bellowing up, Nacho angled the condensation to drip back into the broth. The freed aroma reached Troy, jerking him from thought, a robust scent of toasted chilies, cumin, and oregano, immediately _making him very aware of the ache in his stomach. _

Shifting his weight, and suddenly feeling the aggressive_ urge to smoke,_ he changed the subject. “...Whatcha’ makin’, anyway?”

Nacho smiled as he opened a drawer, finding a ladle and closing it again with his hip. “_Nete hu-kuru bosoli._ Erm..._digo_,” he paused, appearing confused, before organizing his words. “_Posole, _posole rojo_. _You ever try?” 

“..._Nah, _never,” he blinked, Nacho stirring the stew, bubbling and staining the pot. “...Smells _amazing_, though.” 

“‘Cuz is _real food.” _

“What’s in it?” 

“Eh...nixtamal, frijoles, cebolla, ajíes…” he listed, “Good for you.” 

“..._Oh yeah,” _he nodded, sarcastic. “I know_ exactly _what that is;_ thanks._” Snickering, Nacho reached for the bowls, the ceramic clinking. “So, you uh…” Troy continued, quietly. “_...Made? _All this?” 

“_Síīí” _he chimed, buoyantly, “Leftovers. Only gets better as it sits.” 

Feeling like he should _help_ _or something_, but not sure_ how, exactly_, he cleared his throat, antsy. “Is it, uh..._coma-food_? ‘Cuz, ya’ know...gotta’ be _worth a damn _in a couple’a hours...” 

“Depends how much you eat,” He replied, ladling the deep red soup. “You know how when...you working _late_, and it _sucks_, and you can just _know_ your feet will _kill you later_? Or in this case,” he glanced at him, “When you just jump out a _moving truck? _That's when you want this." 

Troy scratched his _good temple _delicately, noticing him filling _two_ bowls.

“...I, uh,” he started, awkwardly—_but found no sense in being coy. “...Appreciate it_, man, it’s uh..._a lot_. Ya’ already bought me breakfast this mornin’, and I know you’re still gettin’ on your feet, ‘n all.” He cleared his throat again,“...Ya’ really didn’t have to do all this.” 

“Ya, ya, is just a _sandwich_ and _leftovers_,” he explained again, incredulous—but lulled, stopping himself. Looking at him, Troy peered back with bruised eyes, slowly raising an eyebrow. 

“..._What?” _

“You went _hungry _a lot,too._” _He concluded, with a nod. “I can tell.”

“_Huh?_ I’m just sayin’,” He ignored, sniffing, _saving that fun and humiliation for never_. “Nobody got time ta’ _cook, _c’mon. I usually grab easy stuff.” 

"..._Por supuesto_,” Nacho humored, his voice trailing off into a brief silence, before turning back to his preparations. “That's why a _strong wind_ could take you out." 

“_Oh-ho_, OK,” He challenged,leaning away from the counter, the floor creaking as he moved. “I’m still _standin’ here_, ain’t I? Nothin’ broken, no _brain damage—_no more than _usual, _anyway_._ Try as ya’ might ta’ get me killed with all these _brilliant plans._” 

“Or lack thereof,” he mused, turning and bringing the bowls to the coffee table. Setting them down, he waved him over, Troy slouching his aching back and reluctantly sauntering to the couch. Sitting, hesitant, _and a bit despondent, _he looked at the meal in front of him. 

The broth was dark and rich, glittering with fat from the stock, wafting a deeply earthy, mildly spicy steam, with the slightest edge of fruitiness. 

_It smelled good. Way too good. And as Nacho promised, he was absolutely starving. _

His host returned with the warm tortillas and a plate from the fridge, covered in plastic wrap, an assortment of chopped vegetables and herbs arranged on it. 

“You can’t survive on cigs and _booze_, güey.” He said, passing him a spoon. “Maybe if you _eat more_ you won’t _bitch so much_.” 

“Can’t promise that,” he joked, dryly, Nacho setting the plate down in the center of the table and peeling away the plastic. Troy stirred his soup a little, blinking himself awake and resting his chin on a closed fist, Nacho joining him on the floor at the other end of the table. Reaching for the remote he turned up the volume on the news, the Spanish subtitles lagging behind significantly. 

“..._Mira,” _he pointed, “six Reds dead. Todos ellos, _Carnales_._” _He took a handful of cilantro and dropped it in his bowl, adding more vegetables until a small mound had formed. Finishing it with a squeeze of lime, he patted it all down into the broth with the back of his spoon. “...Man, I hate calling them that. _Stupid name.”_

“Oh yeah?” Troy asked, tiredly, _halfway on auto-pilot._ “What’s it mean? I never _stopped to ask_.” 

“Erm..._carnal, _like, _flesh.” _

_“Eegh,” _He recoiled. 

“No, no—in the sense of, um...brothers. Blood, or so close bonded, you are _like_ blood.” 

“Ah...I getcha’,” he nodded. “...Can’t say I felt much _brotherly love_ when I saw Victor break some _pachuco’s_ leg over a round of pool.”

“It’s a word of endearment,” he assured as he watched the now-extinguished ruins of the building, fruitlessly tucking his hair behind his ear. “I can think of _better words_ to call them.” 

Troy was about to take a sip—a couple _lumpy things_ and a soft pinto bean sitting in a pool of red broth on his spoon, when Nacho extended a hand. 

“_Oye—espera,_” he stopped him, gesturing to the plate. “Try with stuff. Put what you like on.” 

Looking at it, Troy raised an eyebrow. “...I dunno’ what half that shit is.” 

“You never seen a _vegetable?” _He asked, as he blew on his own spoon.

“Do you normally put a whole _salad_ in your soup?”

_“_This is how you eat this; just _try something, _I got plenty—_y cuhuanárami_,“ he added as he pushed the plate of tortillas closer. “Go for it.” 

Shrugging, Troy added some sliced onions, radish, and avocado, stirring them in. 

Pleased, Nacho reached for a tortilla and tore it into a smaller piece, leaning on an elbow and studying the news. The _PIP _revealed a fuzzy capture from a traffic camera, two janky figures running for the Metro station. 

“There we are...” he dipped the tortilla in the broth, taking a bite. The text below displayed in bolded font: ‘_Two Confirmed Suspects.’_ “...’_Confirmed’_?” he chewed, “They know us?” 

Glancing up, Troy scoffed, before gathering a helping on his spoon again. “Nah, it’s bull. No witnesses, no statements, no evidence...they might try to pull footage from the Metro, but they only keep it a day or so before they tape back over it. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” 

Raising his spoon, he blew some steam away and sipped, Nacho eagerly awaiting his reaction. 

“..._Good, _eh?” 

Troy exhaled through his nose, chewing, glancing at him. 

“..._Good _ain’t even _close_,” he mumbled as he swallowed, immediately warmed. “..._Christ, _man. These lil’ things? What are these?” He pointed to the _lumpy bits_ from before with his spoon. 

“Nixtamal. Is a, um...corn that..._went to the spa_?”

“_What_…?” He squinted at him, before shaking his head. “_OK, whatever, _they’re fuckin’ _delicious_.Ican’t remember the last time I had somethin’ this good, I ain’t shittin’ you. _This’s awesome.” _He hurried his words so he could resume eating, _nearly melting the roof of his mouth, but not caring._

A proud, but equally bashful smile lit up Nacho’s face—_and very well the room, for that matter—_as he lowered his eyes to his own bowl again, the short remainder of their meal silent, save for the clinking of silverware and the reporters repeating themselves every five minutes. 

At Nacho’s insistence, as well as instructions to help himself to the tortillas at any given time—_more of an order than an invitation_—they ate a refill before tidying up. 

Finding the couch afterward, they continued to monitor the news, Nacho’s boredom eventually prompting he channel-surf through late-night TV, mostly infomercials of old ladies peddling gaudy jewelry. He stopped on a channel airing classic horror movies, all black-and-white and rubber-suited monsters. 

“Ah güey, this’s a favorite of mine!" Nacho exclaimed, giddily, as he reclined at the opposite end of the couch. “You ever see this?” 

Troy smirked and shook his head, taking a drag of his cigarette. With his hunger pangs placated, he smoked calmly as campy, _seaweed-wrapped text_ read: “_The Curse of the Mer-Man,” _a Stilwater staple of cultic mystery, and the search for safe harbor, all resulting in a timeless, watery grave at the bottom of the Lake. 

...It was an absolute _travesty_ of a movie, but the eerily minimalist soundtrack, coupled with a dated fear and respect for all things marine, presented a softened insight into Stilwater’s simpler days in antiquity—a port town of fishermen braving the aggression of a flooding inland sea. 

Nacho was engrossed, scooting toward the middle of the couch now to stretch out his bad leg, foot up on the coffee table, nodding at a scene in which a farm-dog barked at the black water lapping at the bank, much to the obliviousness of his owners caught in a lover’s spat. 

“...Man, I miss dogs.” he sighed, Troy raising his eyebrows sleepily. “...They were everywhere back home. Skinny _fleabags_, but,” he tilted his head, blowing his hair away from his face with a puff. “They protected _us, _our _animals…_If _our dogs_ barked at the water? We would’a _listened.” _

“...Oh yeah, that’s right.” Troy murmured, amused. “Ya’ said ya’ grew up ‘round farmland.” 

“That don’t even begin to describe it,” He replied in a relaxed tone, glancing at him. “Our farms ain’t like here. They stretch…” he huffed, clicking his tongue as he searched for a word to accurately quantify it. “_Miles and miles_...only division between crop and nature’s a _wood post_, maybe. It’s all like that. Just...canyon, river, sky, orchards and trees...or...what’s left of them, anyway.” 

“...Damn_,” _he commented, pausing to think of a comparison. “Like the uh...the Grand Canyon?” 

“_Bigger_.” He smiled, “Much bigger. And, um, _green._ The rocks turn green. ...Wish I had photos, I’ll have to find some.” 

“And that mining town ya’ talked about?” 

“I lived in a few.” Pausing thoughtfully, he rested his head back against the cushion. “...I was born in _Guachochi_—is a town, in Chihuahua. Mi abuelos and mama from _Aboréachi,_ which is um...a _village_, more like. Out further is the farms, and then people live scattered out. We’d go out there in the warm seasons. In winter, go deep in the canyon and stay in the caves.” 

“Ah, OK. Remote like _that. _What happened if ya’ got, like, _stranded, _or somethin’? Ain’t it isolated?” 

“Erm, _poquito, _pero_—_we got together for _tesguinadas_, um—a _kind of um..._a..._party? _Reunion. But, bigger. And holidays. The kids all hung out. Walk to see each other.” 

“Huh. No cars?” 

“No, not really any cars.” He smirked, “No paved roads, barely roads to begin with—just _paths_. Gotta’ know where you’re going or you aren’t _getting there._ Would see a off-road truck now and then bring things from the town, stock up a little shop. It was um, _calafia, _an old _bus, _like, wheels long gone. Axels up on cinder blocks. They turned it into a shop, all the local kids painted it. I got in trouble ‘cuz I... painted a _zombie on fire_,” he dipped his head at the sudden memory, smiling through his embarrassment as Troy chuckled. “I used to buy snacks there when I walk home from the school.” 

“That’s pretty nice,” Troy reflected, glancing at him and the quietly nostalgic glint in his eyes. “Can’t imagine. I’ve been dodgin’ cars since I could walk.” 

“Ah, I _love cars_, though.” 

“Youse guys walked those kinda’ distances, then? Even as little kids?”

“It ain’t that far for us. _Used to it_, is what we do. We’d walk together. Run together.” He shook his head. “So...it never felt lonely. Not like here.” 

Troy contemplated, watching as a watery, slimy hand reached out of the water to grip the edge of an unsuspecting fisherman’s boat, eyes lowering to the dust collecting beneath the TV screen.

“I thought ya’ were pretty social? Don’t_ say much_—well, _allegedly. I_ can’t get ya’ to _shut up_.” Nacho snickered, Troy smirking tiredly. “But, ya’ seem to be out ‘n about a lot—why ya’ say that?” 

“Pues...there’s _so, so_ many people, but, is _lonely, _know what I mean? Just ‘cuz people close, don’t mean they aren’t…um,” he held his hands together and brought them away, “...far._ Emotionally_. ¿Sabes? Nobody’s thinking about each other. Nobody has the same goal. Instead of a shared world, is like...a million little separate worlds. I’m not _used _to that.” 

He hummed in agreement, blinking sullenly. “...Yeah. I see what you’re sayin’.” 

_“_When I was sleeping on the street, the first couple weeks, I kept seeing this when I woke up—this orange _ball _in the middle of the night, in the sky.” He held up his hand, as if to pick it from the air. “I got _happy_, ‘cuz I thought, ‘ah, is _the moon_, that’s _pretty_, that’s _normal,_’ but every time, it was the fucking _gas station sign_, güey.” He scoffed, hand plopping back in his lap. “That shit _sucked._” 

“...That why ya’ stayed out in Clafflin Park?”

Nodding, he tilted his head, just as the movie’s fisherman was dragged, screaming, into the black abyss, his dropped compass spinning from the damp rafters. 

“Not _my canyon,_ but, better than some _sidewalk_. When you lose everything here? They make sure you _stays that way_. I will never understand. But, I wasn’t gonna’ let anybody take the _moon_ from me.” 

“Yeah…” Troy muttered, before the emptiness of the living room pulled his eyes away to each dark corner, flickering in the blue glow of the screen. “...Should get a _dog,_ man.” 

“Eh?” 

“Yeah—why not? Got room, there’s the park across the road. Lucas’ cool with pets. Might make it uh..._better_, ‘round here. More _normal_.” 

“...Never thought to,” Nacho mumbled thoughtfully after a moment, his dark eyes sleepy. “..._Sí, estaría bien_.” 

Troy finished his cigarette, leaning up to pat it out in the same pop can, reclining again. 

The film rolled on with dramatic intensity, building to its climactic conclusion of the sole survivor—a rescued child pulled from the water, spared by the monster. The choppy waves, and the crowd that rushed down the wooden dock, made Troy swallow with a dry throat, drifting in and out of awareness. 

“...Yeah, Stilwater don’t need a _monster_ to make bodies turn up in the lake no more.” He murmured, flatly. “...Really says a lot when the monster’s got more mercy than some people.” 

He didn’t hear a response, clearing his throat and sniffing, eyes burning as his lashes fluttered, aching shoulders cradled by the cushions. _His head pounded and everything hurt, _the birds chirping their chaotic racket just beyond the windows sounding more like _breaking glass_. 

And then he blinked. 

When his eyes opened again, the previously dark room had flooded in rich, warm sunlight, the peeling, paneled walls bathed in staggered rays peeking between Venetian blinds. His neck was stiff, mouth dry and sticky, and his phone buzzed—rattling across the wooden coffee table. 

Sucking in a breath, startled, he lifted his heavy head from the crook of two cushions, leaning forward to sit up—but, a dense weight on his arm prevented it. Confused, he blinked through the blur, looking down. Nacho was slumped against him, shoulder pressed to his, arms folded over his chest, and his head lolled forward—face lost in the tangled black curtain. 

Troy quieted, letting his head rest, sleep dragging him back into hazy comfort for another few moments, feeling far longer than they were. The clatter of his phone vibrating shook him awake again, this time with an awkward snort. 

Accustomed to wiggling out from beneath a drooling, overworked individual, _courtesy of the NYC Subway system_, he carefully pushed Nacho upright enough to dislodge his arm and reach for his phone, swearing under his breath. 

_10:30 AM. _

_Five missed calls. All from Dex._

“..._Fuck,” _he hissed, combing his fingers through his thready hair. Caught in a dazed panic, shaking the pins and needles from his arm, he clicked through the messages, each text more aggravated than the last—all various phrasing of the same question: 

_‘What the fuck happened?’ _

Annoyed, he reached back with a regretful pause. “...Nacho,_ hey_—” he coaxed as he shook his shoulder, Nacho’s brows furrowing. “_Wake up_.” 

“_Péka_..._Ma goci-bóko,_” he grumbled, shrugging him off.

“C’mon man, ya’ gotta’ get up—it’s _mornin’._” 

His glossy eyes opened, blinking through strands of hair, bewildered. “..._Ay,” _he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut again and pinching the bridge of his nose. “..._¿Que pasó?_” 

“_Nada, _take it easy.” Troy calmed. “Sorry. I passed out. I need ya’ to call your boss for me and I’ll get outta’ here. Dex is crammed up my ass wantin’ updates.” 

“...Sí, _sí claro_, ¿qué hora es?” he stammered, sleepily, sitting up and patting his pockets. “_Mmm_...momentito, _¿dónde está mi_…? _ahí,_” he remembered, finding his phone on the table. He flipped it open, eyelids shuttering as he tried to clear his vision, dialing. 

The phone rang, Nacho attempting to collect himself with each subsequent tone, face in his hand. When the line picked up, he briskly coughed into his arm to clear his throat, before speaking._ “¿Bueno? Sí, buenos días, soy Cuāuhtli—” _The rest of his words sped by _quickly_, far quicker than Troy was accustomed to, or could register. 

_He’s been going easy on you. _

He listened, cluelessly, in his groggy fog, to the twang and rhythm of his speech that he’d previously overlooked. Nacho rose from the couch after a brief exchange of questions, hiking up his sagging pants as he hunted for something to write with. Finding a pen and the back of a take-out menu, he scribbled circles until the ink cooperated, jotting something down, phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. 

Troy lifted his eyes to his expression—_still blurry_—searching for any trace of good news. Nacho nodded a few times, rubbing his forehead with his thumb before parting his hair out of his eyes, replying shortly and cordially, hanging his head and chewing on the pen through another few minutes of conversation. He glanced back at Troy, making motions with his hand, opening and closing his fingers to mimic a_ clam_, which made him scoff out a grin. 

After a few more pleasantries, Nacho managed to steer into goodbyes, bringing the phone away and pressing the button a few times. 

“...Well?” Troy asked, through a long yawn, “...Whatcha’ _got for me_?”

With a sigh, he picked up the paper, crossing the room and holding it out to him, “_Complicated. _I’ll explain you.There _are_ shipments of detergents, specifically, but all of the ones we get over in Athos are _imports, _not exports. No industrial detergents, like you say, are leaving the islands from Athos. Which, doesn’t mean they _ain’t, _just, _we_ don’t get any.” 

“...Ah, shit. So, it’s a no-go.” Troy grunted, taking the paper and turning it around. Squinting at Nacho’s tiny, blocky handwriting, “...Think ya’ coulda’ written this any _smaller?” _

“_Pero,” _he interjected, pocketing his hands and pondering with lax shoulders. “Glycerin is a tricky product, erm, _specialized_. Manufacturers of glycerin ship _worldwide, _is a lot of money and requires special processing.”

“...You found shipments of _glycerin? _Bein’ _exported?” _

“Not just that, but stuff like mineral _oil_, mineral _spirits_, soda ash, hidróxido de sodio, STPP, plus _veggie oils,_ tallows, greases…” he listed, “_and _sanitizing cleaners for farms and granaries. Didn’t you say you transported drugs in animal feed?” 

“...Yeah?” He replied, thinking, still processing his words. “...But it was _blow_,man, and I didn’t see any of the same shit at that warehouse that I moved back then. Ya’ think they’re connected?”

“How long ago did you run for them again?” 

“Uh…" he scratched his scalp, "it's been over a year?" 

“Pues, that’s plenty of time to rebrand and keep old partners. A factory making core ingredients for soaps can supply the same people, and are probably making their own industrial supplies too—and _toothpaste, _apparently_, _he say." 

"Fuckin'..._wha-_? What about _toothpaste..._?" 

"_Nothing. _W_e_ were out in the mills, there were silos everywhere.Just because we only see _some _of their stock, doesn’t mean that’s all there is. Los Hermanos Lopez had the entire district...chances are, they have stake in both kinds of exports. If they aren’t shipping the stuff out by plane, it’s going to the South Port, in Poseidon.” 

“So..._what?” _

“Instead of lookin’ through _thousands_ of on-going contracts, I had him check to see which contracts _terminated_, seein’ as there was a shootout the other night that lost Los Carnales the port. They no wanna’ take that risk of Saints or Kings catching on to _any _of their paper trails, so as of this morning...” he lifted a brow, proudly, “there was just _one.” _

“..._Shit, _ya’ think it’s them?” 

Nacho nodded, crossing his arms. “Sometimes, he say we get trucks come over from _that _third-party distributor.” He nodded at the paper, Troy glancing up at him before returning his eyes to it. “They bring us both crude _and _distilled yellow glycerin—dynamite stuff, which we sampled. All from _that _manufacturer._”_

Troy raised his eyebrows as he read both names, contemplating. 

_Need contact info. _

Opening his mouth to form a request, voice still unused and gravelly, “...Good shit, man, do ya’ got a—?”

Nacho was already setting a heavy phone book down on the table in front of him, smirking through his frizzy hair. 

“I’ll make coffee.” 

Troy thumbed through the pages, searching for the manufacturer’s name or any sort of relevant ads, all while Nacho rifled through one of the many stacked cardboard boxes still filled with wadded newspaper in the kitchen. He found a drip-coffee pot, clearing a space on the counter for it. 

“I think I got it,” Troy exclaimed suddenly, holding his finger beside the name as he dialed with the other hand. Nacho rinsed the coffee pot in the bathroom sink, craning his neck curiously. The phone rang, much to Troy’s surprise, before a receptionist answered. 

“Hi—uh, yes, I’m calling on behalf of Stilwater Elementary, how are you?” Nacho nearly snorted, doubling over at his tone, Troy waving at him to _shut up_ from the couch. “Great, great,” he continued, cordially, keeping his voice level as he switched the phone to his other shoulder. “Well, both I, and the assistant principal are looking to see if organizing a guided tour of your factory would be possible. That’s right. It’s for my fourth grade science class, twenty-one students. We originally had a tour planned for the museum, but they had to cancel due to renovations. The students made their own soap in my class, and I figured a tour of the real thing would be very enriching as an end-of-the-year field trip.” 

_‘Enriching?’ _Nacho silently mouthed back, Troy aggressively shooing him away again. 

“...It would be, oh, probably a week from now, the day before the kids’ last day. Parental permission, a bus driver, lunch...all has to be figured out ahead of time. Like I said, it’s short-notice. That’s right.” 

Nacho did everything in his power to stay silent, locking his jaw as he shuffled back into the kitchen with his coffee pot full of tap. Peeling the lid off the can of grounds, he scooped some into the filter, listening as Troy hummed in agreement. He rose from the couch, struggling to limit his grunts from every joint _screaming,_ grabbing the pen Nacho used earlier. He wiped the chewed end off on his shirt with a grimace as the receptionist chattered openly. Plopping back down, he dragged the take-out menu over, quickly scrawling with his bandaged left hand. 

“OK. Go ahead. Uh-huh. And, where are you located? ...The corner of Pilsen?” Nacho raised his eyebrows, Troy glancing at him. “...Uh-huh. And your hours?” He wrote—scratching out a dyslexic mistake—rewriting it. “...Excellent. OK. Thank you very much.” 

He hung up when she asked for a name. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he sighed and stared at the flowers on the bookshelf, before peering at Nacho. Just as the coffee pot sputtered and started to drip, the younger man rolled his lips into a tight smile of _restraint. _

“...So, you _choose_ to barely talk _English._”

“_Shuddup,_ a’ite. I got the address. It’s the factory on Pilsen, right on the coast an’ down from Athos—I know exactly the one, passed it a million times. It’s old as hell and’s got a lotta’ trucks an’ fencing. It’s gotta’ be it.” 

“And the made-up words, you do that too ‘cuz…?” 

“_Now,” _he continued, ignoring him. “We don’t got a class of twenty-one fourth-graders, but, we got Dex and a bunch’a _Saints_, so, the _maturity level_ should pretty much _match._” 

“The dynamite inspired you...” he snickered under his breath, dipping his head. 

“Are ya’ _done? _I got my work cut out for me today, findin’ info on this building ain’t gonna’ be easy. Before we even _think_ about shakin’ down this place, we first gotta’ make sure there’s Carnales doin’ business there. I’d send somebody, but they don’t know what to look for, so I’m doin’ it myself.” 

Nacho raised his head, about to speak, but waited. Troy flipped through the phonebook, pausing only to open his messages. His thumbs worked and he cycled through the letters, frowning at Dex’s chain of texts, replying: 

_“u should watch the news. its free. i found the place, getting intel” _

When it was sent, he set his phone down, circling a name with the pen and folding the corner of the page, before skimming further. Nacho poured himself a coffee when it was done, bringing Troy a cup and placing it on the table just as he was patting a cigarette free from the pack. 

“...I could go check it out,” Nacho offered, Troy raising an eyebrow. He shrugged, sipping his coffee, “Pretty sure I know them when I see them. While I do that, you could find this floor plan you talk about.” 

“It’s dangerous.” Troy replied, flatly. 

“...For_ reals_?”

“For _reals, _amigo,” he repeated, pinching the cigarette between his lips and patting his jeans for his lighter—_still missing—_before scoffing, irritably. “...It’s not that I don’t think ya’ can’t _do it, _it’s just that’s a_ big fuckin’ property_ and there’s probably cameras and security, plus hired muscle—ya’ don’t want to be caught snoopin’ ‘round by yourself. They’re gonna’ be on high-alert now.” 

“The Lopezes are probably paying to keep a lot of mouths shut,” Nacho added, “this factory included, so nobody finds their little science project in the basement. Chances are, they looking on the inside first, think somebody sold them out.” 

“Yup, ya’ got it.” He picked up his coffee, sipping it—_shit smelled like cinnamon and could strip paint. “_That said, we doin’ this my way and takin’ advantage of that fact. Playin’ it real safe, we’re in no fuckin’ _hurry.” _

“You mistake me—I mean it’s not a good idea _you get seen_, either.” 

“I ain’t worried about the—” 

“I no talking about the police description.” He shook his head. “Is there any chance the Carnales could know your face?”

Troy paused, chewing his lip, _remembering Puskarich’s look of absolute horror in that disgusting bathroom, _“I was, uh... _different_, back then.” 

“_How different?” _Nacho insisted, “‘Cuz these guys make it a habit of having a _good memory.” _

“...E..._Enough_, I think.” He continued, hopefully, but unsure. “...Don’t worry ‘bout it, man. Dealt with it all before.” 

“It ain’t good enough, güey—what happens if that cabrón from the liquor store told some people beforehand that he ran into you at the track? Don’tchu think he would’a?” 

“He was spun ta’ hell.” 

“An’ high people don’t _run they mouths_? I killed everybody in the building, but that don’t mean nothing. If they looking for leaks in the system they gonna’ remember people that are _out_ of it, now, too. _Mira—_,” he paused, holding his tongue, but sighing anyway, “...How you think _my uncle _disappeared? He wasn’t_ involved anymore_, either.” 

“OK, OK,” Troy relented, quickly. “...I get your _point,_ Nacho, OK? Look,” he turned to him, “Worry ‘bout yourself. Nothin’s goin’ down right now—we’re just sittin’ here, a’ite, got our _coffee--_ everything’s fine. We just need ta’ find out if this factory’s got _roaches _before I go through all the trouble of—"

His phone vibrated.

Already tired—again—Troy reached over and plucked it from the table, expecting _some shitty remark from Dex. _

When he flipped open the screen, however, it was another number. 

“...It’s from Samson,” he relayed, opening the message. “...’_Saw you gentlemen had a good time from the morning news_…” He read, the second message arriving, lighting up the screen. “...’_Thought you’d like to know who turned up in my shop this morning looking to buy a ride_.’”

“...¿Quién es?” 

The third message downloaded, loading, revealing a blurry photo of an unsuspecting man in his early-thirties. 

“I dunno’,” Troy replied, confused. “It’s just some white dude in a beanie—I don’t recognize him.” 

Nacho approached, leaning down and Troy showing him. He squinted, staring at it a moment, before lifting a brow. “..._Billy?” _

“Billy?” Troy repeated, “Who the fuck’s Billy?” 

“..._A la chingada_...” he grimaced, as a fourth message arrived, Troy furrowing his brows before reading it. 

“_‘Lost his job as a delivery boy and needs to skip town STAT,_’” he continued, Samson’s messages only serving to perplex him further. Nacho was rubbing his forehead, though, exhaling through his nose as he took a long drink of his coffee. Troy looked up at him, his eyes on the ceiling—a rare moment of aggravation from him. “...Ya’ gonna’ fill me in?” 

“The factory’s definitely Carnales,” He assured, with a sigh. “Billy’s a narco. His roommate's a guy called Toby— he runs the junkyard near the train yard. Samson had me pick up scrap and parts from him. Billy’s a _truck driver_, like you were. I _knew that_, but I no know _where._ I never put it together they were slinging _Carnales product_.” 

Troy blinked at him, before his eyes lidded, lowering his chin a bit to stare at the floor. “...Welp,” he said, eventually. “Mystery solved. Mind tellin’ me why ya’ don’t sound too happy ‘bout it?” 

“...That also means we might’a burned Toby’s supply,” he winced. “And his cook.” 

“_And?_” He led, coarsely. “He _loco?” _

“....Erm…pues...” 

“...Say no more,” Troy shook his head, bringing his cooled coffee to his lips, “Add him to the list; I don’t give a shit.” 

“He’s not...he’s a _nice guy_,” Nacho tried, prompting Troy’s incredulous expression. “Really—I’m sure we—_I,_ can talk to him. If Billy wants to skip town, then that means he’s got trouble for some reason. I can follow that up,” he nodded, Troy’s expression still unconvinced. “While you get info on the building. OK?” 

“Uh-huh. And if ya’ end up dead in a junkyard from some coked-up dealer?” 

“Worry ‘bout yourself,” he parroted, Troy huffing and shaking his head, finishing his coffee. 

He rose from the couch, back aching, head throbbing, as he pocketed his phone. 

“A’ite, man,” he concluded, after a moment, taking his revolver from the end table and stuffing it in his belt. “Round Two. You g’head and do that, and we’ll meet up later. I got a floor plan to track down. Let's get this shit done." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a little slower and fluffier. I decided some down time after the last chapter would be a good kick-off point for the truck mission to start, which is next!!! (And also one of my favorite missions in SR1.) Things take a turn after the next mission. 
> 
> I would like to add that Nacho would be speaking the central dialect of Rarámuri. However, my most reliable resource is in the Urique (western) dialect, which has notable differences. I did my best, regardless, so I apologize if there's some continuity errors, or if the guy from Guachochi talks like a guy from Urique. 
> 
> I wrote a plot for the Curse of the Mer-Man, because spooky Great Lakes stuff is really awesome. Couldn't resist.
> 
> Nacho's posole also doesn't have any meat in it, he's accustomed to a vegetarian version. I made posole twice while writing this chapter because it made me so aggressively hungry.


	16. The Missing Shipment

_“You think you can steal from me?” -Pop!- “_You think you can _rob me?” -Pop!- _“You _stupid,” _-_Pop!- “Back-stabbing,” -Pop!- “piece,” -Pop!- “Of shit!” _

Sandals froze in the gravel, legs bent at the knees, Nacho’s hands hovering at his sides, unsure if they should reach for the pistol in his belt. The gunshots settled, piercing cracks drowned in the horns of the neighboring trainyard, Nacho’s black eyes wide and breath hitched.

The pale, bare-chested man lowered his own pistol, the barrel still smoking from a shaky grip, candy-toned beads strung with a child’s hand jingling from a bony wrist. He rolled stooped, sunburnt shoulders, knobby spine curtained in a wild array of ginger, matted coils, tucking the pistol into the waistband of his corduroy patchwork trousers. He peered, unfazed, at the body lying before his bare feet, face-down in the dirt. 

_Billy. Or, what was left of him. _

Nacho managed a silent gulp, increasingly aware of their isolation behind wire fences and towers of rusted cars, the smouldering barrel fire burning _who-knows-what_ spewing thick smoke over the junkyard. Closing his fists, he straightened his back, taking a step forward. 

Spinning around, elbow snapping, his fierce gray eyes as steely as the pistol he stared down, Nacho threw up his hands in sudden exclamation. Almost as quickly as he aimed, his eyes softened once they’d settled on the other’s height, arm loosening. 

“Oh…’sup, kiddo.” He sniffed, slurring in a rough, mellow voice, disposition flipping to casual friendliness. He waved him over, beckoning with a curling of his fingers, weathered cheeks creasing into a hint of a smile. Nacho swallowed again, hesitantly approaching him with feigned confidence. The hippy tucked the gun—again—into his pants, looking down at him curiously, tilting his head. “Hey… I _know you,_” he pondered slowly, more to himself than anything. “You’re uh…” he shut his eyes, thinking. “_Samson’s bud,_ amirite?” 

Nacho nodded in reply, speechless, before staring, unblinking, down at Billy. 

“The uh…” the ginger man continued, “Oh..._right, _yeah…” he drawled out as he tilted his head back, tapping Nacho’s tattooed sleeve heartily. “_Eagle-Man; _I remember you. Sorry ‘bout the _mess, _I didn’t know I’d be havin’ _company.” _

“...Toby, ¿sí?” 

“_Correcto_, ‘migo.” He drawled, before leaning down and grabbing Billy’s wrists. “Ya’ mind givin’ me a hand here with the _trash, _my man? I’m on a bit of a _tight schedule. _I don’t want the buzzards ‘round.” Nacho glanced up, the black wings of vultures circling overhead in the cloudless sky. 

_Something told him they knew where to find dinner. _

Tense, Nacho did as he was asked, stepping around the body and gripping his legs by the cuffs of his jeans, lifting with a grunt. Toby peeked around his leg to the deep crimson blot in the dirt, noticing as the concerned younger man kicked more dirt over it. “Oh—don’t you worry _‘bout that_, man; I’ll just throw some salt over it. _No biggie_.” 

Raising concerned eyes, he sucked in a breath as they carried Billy’s body back toward the trailer. “I got some _left over,_” Toby explained, “I gotta’ clean up deer all the time down on the curb there, poor things. Was one just last night. Ya’ should’a seen it; Mother Nature’s masterpieces meetin’ their end like that. We’re on _their territory, _pushing _them_ to the brink. It’s not _their fault _drunk assholes come _rolling _down the off-ramp at 65 in the middle of the night.” 

They started up the stairs of the concrete platform, Toby checking the path behind him a few times. “What do we leave our _kids, _huh_? _You got kids?” Nacho glanced up, confused, but shook his head. “_Ah—_anyway, whatta’ we leave ‘em?Debt? Oil? Wars in places we don’t belong? The mountain’s only there once; blow it up and it’s gone for good.” 

Furrowing his brows, Nacho wondered if he’d heard _correctly, _but found himself_ nodding along anyway._ “Come to think of it,” Toby mumbled after another moment, recalling. “I think I still got some of him _left in the freezer, _if ya’ want_._ I make a _mean jerky._” 

“...O_h_,” Nacho hummed in reply, concealing a startled grimace in the drape of his hair. “..I guess um…” he pondered, as best he could whilst _carrying a body. “_Better to not waste…?” 

“_Right on_, man,” Toby lit up, as he suddenly kicked open his door, the linoleum swinging on creaky hinges. “_Right on_.” 

Ducking into the trailer, Nacho was greeted to a musty air conditioner rattling away from a window, the living room a surprisingly tidy retro-styled layout, complete with paneled walls and multicolored tiles. His television was dialed and ancient, a bunny-eared antenna atop its boxed, fuzzy screen, the shag carpet an off-shade of orange, several stacks of cooking magazines occupying a wooden spindle coffee table. Racks of horns, hub-caps, license plates, and bizarre sculptures of amateur wood-working cluttered every available surface, a taxidermy raccoon seeming to watch him as he passed. 

They walked the body into the kitchen, blood dripping on the tile, making Toby grumble disdainfully about _Billy’s etiquette_. Behind the counter was a storm-shelter door, cut right into the floor, obviously a _posthumous addition. _

“Oh, where’s my manners,” He slurred pointedly. “I got _coffee cake_, if ya’ want some.” He nodded toward a glass stand on the counter, a snapshot-worthy bundt cake inside. “Y’know, my special lady, she’s one hell of a pâtissière,” He tempted, dropping Billy so he could pinch the woven throw rug with his toes and drag it away, revealing the plastic door. Lifting it, a waft of dust and the familiar hint of chemicals immediately found him, Nacho still standing awkwardly with Billy’s ankles in tow. 

“Her cakes are the bomb; ya’ should really try a slice. She didn’t win the Stilwater Fair’s blue-ribbon bake-off six years in a row for nothin’, know what I mean?” He sniffed, hiking up his pants, fruitlessly, as he grabbed Billy’s arms again. “...Just drop him down the shoot, man—he’s a big boy, I’m pretty sure he’ll be alright.” His raspy chuckle followed. 

Lifting Billy again, they angled him over the hole in the floor, dropping him. He thudded down the ladder, hitting the basement dirt with a sloppy thud. Toby turned to start down, prompting he follow. “Come on down to my office, man,” he beckoned. “Let’s talk _trade._” 

Chewing his lip, Nacho dipped his head as Toby disappeared beneath the floor, stepping around and gripping the metal collapsible ladder. He descended after him, roughly ten feet down, into a makeshift storm cellar, the walls and ceiling stacked stones and discontinued piping. Toby’s lab consisted of silos and beakers, foiled tubes running to smaller containers—a more compact, cleaner version of what they burned the night before. Nacho stepped over Billy, jumping down, Toby dragging the body a short few feet toward a massive tub along the back wall. 

Nacho scanned the dimly lit room, expecting astringent, vinegary fumes again, but the repurposed chef hoods vacuumed the air through ventilation shafts, more than likely exhausting somewhere out in the junkyard. 

“So,” Toby began, opening a toolbox, rummaging for a pair of old pliers, “What can I do for you today?” 

Nacho watched as he rose, turned, and crouched—pulling open Billy’s jaw and working the pliers into his mouth. 

Quickly averting his eyes to the floor, he cleared his throat, “...Um, anoche—” 

“The fires, right?” Toby guessed, a bit too quickly, but amiably, as he wrenched a tooth free, dropping it in a little jar beside his foot. “Yeah, I thought I’d hear from you.” 

Raising an eyebrow, “...How you figure?” 

“Oh, don’t get _me wrong_, I appreciate the _social visit,_ but Samson filled me in a lil’ on the details of your..._expertise_.” Smirking, he yanked again. “That’s some fine _finessin_’, Eagle-Man, ya’ got the touch.” 

“Um...sí,” he replied, slowly. “Were they part of your supply?” 

“No siree,” he half-sang. “I got my own little thang going on down here, as ya’ can see. I sell and launder through the scrapyard, and LC cuts me in fifteen-percent. Or, they don’t _kill me_ for fifteen-percent, take your pick. It’s a living. Billy here, though, wasn’t satisfied with his allowance.” 

“So…” Nacho drawled, “You’re no mad?” 

“_Mad? _Now, why would I be mad, compadre? That’s not good for your health, man. Gotta’ keep that blood pressure in check if ya’ want to stay alive for the ones that matter.” He tore another tooth free with a jerk of his arm, holding it up to the light, “...Ah, that’s nasty. Look, he didn’t floss a day in his life.” Looking back down at Billy, he slapped his cheek a couple times, head nudging lifelessly. “Maybe if ya’_ sold more than ya’ smoked_, ya’ could’ve _kept ‘em._” 

“I...um, pues, Billy was a driver, ¿sí?” 

“Right-o, he watched my ass while I did deals, and moved stock between Pilsen and Poseidon Alley. He _also_ was skimmin’ off the top, and decided to come _kill me_ a few minutes ago, like the scheming-rat-bastard-sonofabitch he is.” Popping out another tooth, some blood dribbled. “_Was_. After the _cook-out _last night, he assumed he could skip town, knowin’ I’d find out he made a bunch of promises he couldn’t keep anymore. Would be real easy to come _get me _and _bail outta’ Dodge _and make it look like it was all _my idea. _Or at least, that was _his thought-process._ I already had to uh…” he sniffed, “consult the customer service department this morning.” He patted the pistol hanging halfway out of his ass, “Ya’ know what I mean. I got a brand-standard to uphold. Billy’s lil’_ chamba _was bad for business, naturally.” 

Nacho nodded, silently, eyes scanning the shelves, recognizing the drums and unlabeled packaging. “...I take it ‘chu get all your supplies from the factory in Pilsen?”

“Sure do,” he answered. 

“Can you tell me ‘bout the inside?” 

“Why, you plannin’ on doing an inspection?” He looked at him over his shoulder, jar starting to fill. “...You sure you wanna’ do that? Something tells me they’re not OSHA compliant, man…” He raised his disjointed brows, icy eyes calmly challenging. “...Could _get hurt._” 

Nacho said nothing, a grim nod his reply. 

“_Well,_” he continued, suddenly perky. “If it’s on behalf of the Saints, ya’ can count me in. I’ve been lookin’ for new...horizons, for a little while, now. Hector Lopez ain’t really my style, know what I’m sayin’? But you, you did me a solid, if anything. All that ‘Coma’s’ off the market.” 

“‘Coma’?” Nacho repeated, brows knitting. “¿Qué es eso?” 

“Poison, my man, poison. ‘Bout a month ago, a bad batch outta’ somewhere took out around thirty in one night, all across town, said and done. It didn’t make the news ‘cause the majority were unsheltered. That’s also _bad for business_; we don’t wanna’ kill our customers.” 

“And the labs in Cecil and Athos, and the liquor store, they were making these Coma?”

“Far as I can tell,” Toby shrugged, getting to his feet. “The factory on Pilsen is heavily guarded. The top and middle floors are, as ya’ might’ve guessed, fairly legit. What goes on downstairs, however, not so much. You’ll find two rooms, one’s the kitchen, the other an assembly line of packers in _au naturel_ stashing the shit away, but, only a percent of what comes out of that factory is packed with product. They bring that on down to Poseidon, to the Scott Vice Wharf, once every couple’a weeks.” 

“...And the distributors?” 

“BPS Co.” He replied, “Original, I know.” 

Nodding, Nacho exhaled, looking at the floor as he compartmentalized the information. Toby worked off Billy’s shoes, relieving his pockets of any personal effects, lifting his shabby brown wallet. “Ah…” he said, as he parted the empty leather. “Somebody already got to our boy first. Guess we’ll find out _who.” _Working off his clothes next, he gathered them in a black garbage bag, setting it against the wall near several others. Nacho watched, _wondering how many met the same end today. _Toby scratched his head and shrugged, standing over the stripped body. “Mind helpin’ me get Billy in for his bath? Careful, though—stuff will give ya’ a _mighty sting_.” 

Rolling his lips into a line, Nacho cautiously stepped over, grabbing the ankles again, Toby taking his arms. They walked him over the tub, lowering him into a solution and hurriedly backing away. 

Recognizing the exact chemical, Nacho raised his brows and stared at a wall, Toby approaching and slapping him supportively on the back, garbage bag slung over his shoulder--destined for the smoking barrel outside. “I’d say a few words, but, my show’s about to come on in a few minutes, so...If there’s nothin’ else I can help you with…?” 

“No,” He shook his head, looking away from the tub as it started to cloud, “I’ll give to you my number.” 

“Sweet, sweet.” He smiled, pleased. “After you, man.” 

Without needing to be told again, Nacho started up the ladder, Toby close behind. 

__ 

Stepping out into the sunlight, Troy grunted and leaned to crack his sore back, twisting a few times. Wedged beneath his arm was a laminated tube, secured with a gumband, still coated in dust from its slumber in some long-forgotten file cabinet. Taking a well-deserved cigarette between his lips, he cupped his hands and lit it, breathing smoke into the bright afternoon haze, eyes still adjusting to Stilwater’s choice in _bright gray concrete. _Shuffling across the uneventful street, the plum _Vegas_ sat parked beside a parking meter, rippled glimmering reflection caught in the dull front windows of the _City Operations_ building. Opening the door, he stepped over the rollbar into searing seats, working free a few buttons on the band-collared shirt that secured his _cover story_ as a contractor. Just as he shut the door, hurriedly rolling down the window, a ring jingled from his pocket. 

Keeping the cigarette in his mouth, he fished his phone from his back pocket, holding it low beneath the dash so he could read the screen. Flipping it open, he quickly brought it to his ear. 

“Hey,” he greeted, holding the phone to his cheek with his shoulder as he put the keys in the ignition. “How’d it go?” 

“_Seein’ as I’m no dead, I’d say pretty good.” _Nacho replied, some wind interfering with his relaxed, hushed voice. 

“Ah, ‘kay,” he snorted, turning the key and the engine rumbling, before settling into a rhythmic idle. “That sounds like ya’ got some good news for me.” 

_“Almost. I fill you in later. Y, ¿tuviste suerte?” _

“I got the floorplans to the factory—took a peek at ‘em. Had to wait in an office for two hours bullshittin’ about somebody’s _graduation party,_ but, I got ‘em.” 

_“Bien, todo puede estar listo. I’m with Dex at the gas station, he went in to pay. Can you meet us?” _

Grunting, he nodded, hissing smoke from the corner of his mouth as he pressed the clutch and shifted. “Yup—on my way. Be right over.” 

“_OK_, _apúrate pues por favor.” _He muttered into the receiver, quickly._ “El se comporta como un pinche fresa, es vergonzoso. Me estoy volviendo loco, güey, hurry up, I can’t do this.” _

Not sure what that meant_, but his tone speaking volumes, _he smirked and snickered as he took the phone away, hanging up and leaving it in his lap. Turning, hand over hand, he merged into afternoon traffic, car roaring down the street. 

Some time later, he cruised over the dip down the hill, rounding the corner along the cliffs until the familiar parking lot shared between the_ Freckle Bitch’s_ and the gas station came into view. As promised, he could see Dex leaning against the fender of his sleek _Raycaster _6-speedconvertible, sun caught in the tinted glass. A patterned silk shirt signaled he _had somewhere to be_, a watch glittering not-so-subtly from his wrist. Beside him was the tattered, rust-orange muscle car parked one space over, Nacho sitting on the hood, donning a frayed, orange flannel with the sleeves cut off, cargo pants dusty from the junkyard, bandana low on his brow to restrain his sweat and hair. 

His folded arms and rounded back implied he was listening to_ some good, old-fashioned, one-sided conversation. _

Troy squinted to the sun, snorting, a puff of smoke to follow. _Better lend him a hand. _

Both their heads rose as the _Vegas _approached, the plum race car angling into a parking space, the trio of _Saintly rides_ drawing stares from joggers along the sidewalk. Floor plans in tow, he turned off the engine, stepping over the rollbar out into overbearing sunshine again, nodding in their direction as he closed their distance. 

Nacho quietly watched him, subtly surprised and blinking, but averted his gaze to the pavement when Troy glanced his way. Dex leaned away from his car with some dismissive stoop of his shoulders, crossing his arms with a glib smirk to follow, attention settling on Troy’s boots. 

He hissed between his teeth, shaking his head a bit, dark eyes shaded beneath the brim of his sideways visor. “_Damn_.” 

Not expecting that, Troy narrowed his eyes at him in the bright haze, walking over to Nacho’s car and unrolling the plans across the hood. “_Huh_?” 

“You look like ya’ went_ ten rounds,” _he gestured to him, broadly. “..._and lost.” _

“_Ah_, OK.” He nodded, dryly. _Between the road rash, burns, and the recent surgery, he’d looked better._ “If ya’_ don’t mind_, can we get this over with? Some of us got _shit to do._” 

Dex smirked and shook his head again, almost _sympathetic,_ as Troy held one corner of the plans, Nacho unfolding his arms to hold down the other. Pushing up his sleeves, Troy motioned, placing a bandaged finger over the northern entrance of the building, cigarette bobbing from his lips. 

“So. Here’s the deal,” he began. “There’s three levels to the factory. The bottom-most is for ventilation and storage, which is probably where we need ta’ get to. The entire perimeter of the building is fenced in and hugs the cliff. There’s two loading docks at the back, hours are 5AM ta’ 9PM. If we went in from here,” he pointed, “or here, we could—” 

“No, they’d just see ya’ comin’.” Dex interrupted, dismissive. “Cops try that shit all the time and it never works.” 

Pausing, Troy contemplated, before reluctantly exhaling. “...Well, shit.” Splaying his fingers, he studied the floorplan, before glancing over at him and Nacho, “...Yeah, you’re right. Look, the Los Carnales _gotta’ _be cuttin’ all their shit—” 

“_The _Carnales.” Dex corrected. 

“What?” 

“‘Río Grande _River_’, Jesus_.” _He continued, Nacho lifting his head and raising a brow.

“What the fuck—?” 

“It’s _redundant. _It’s not ‘_the Los Carnales’, _it’s just ‘_the Carnales,” _he insisted,“_’ _‘Los’ means…_fuck it. _Like I was telling him, we’re not gonna’ raid the factory quite yet._” _

Troy looked between the two of them, skeptical. “..._Why not_?” 

“‘Cuz I’m not a _gun-toting psychopath_ named _Johnny Gat._” 

“...OK, fair enough.” He relented, glancing at Nacho, who remained silent. “I take it you got a _plan_.” 

“One of my boys called and said they saw a truck leaving the factory district with a heavy LCS escort. It’s probably loaded with drugs, but that’s just a bonus. Our target is the_ truck itself_. Julius tells me you’d know all about it.” 

“I dunno’ about _‘all about it’, _but-- ” 

“Good.” He didn’t wait for further elaboration, attention on the floorplan fading as he stepped back from the car. “I need you to find it, track it down, and bring it back to the Row in one piece. It’s no good to us blown to shit.” 

Troy furrowed his brows, incredulous, straightening his back to peer at him. “...We went through all the trouble of findin’ this shit out, and now you’re after a fuckin’ _truck?” _he raised his voice, irritated, “The fuck you need that for? We got the physical map-out and a fuckin’ _inside source,_ what more do ya’ want?” 

“Let’s just get the _truck first_,” he emphasized, slower and clearer, “_and then_ I’ll tell ya’ the rest of the plan.” 

“Before we charge into LC territory on full-alert and get _shot to hell_, it’d be _fuckin’ nice to know.”_

“Shit, Troy—what’s with all the questions? Why can’t you be like my man, over here?” He pointed a thumb at Nacho, who looked up again, silently indignant. 

“_Look_, Dex—!” 

He turned, facing Nacho and folding his arms, the glint in his eyes betraying the display of politeness, “Could you _go get that truck, please?_” 

As soon as he looked at him, Nacho dipped his head and scooted off the hood, jumping down and moving for the driver’s side. Placated, he met Troy’s gaze again, _smug_. “See? Was that so hard?” 

Glaring, Troy snatched the floor plan from the hood, re-rolling it as Dex walked around him to his car. Opening it, the interior beeping, Troy glowered at nothing as he worked the gumband back around the tube. “Let me know when it’s done, this time.” Dex added. “Take it on down to Samson’s garage; he’ll keep it hidden.” 

Troy smirked dryly as he tilted his head back, sardonic. “Anything _else_?” 

“Yeah,” he commented with an equal bite, sitting down and slamming the door behind him. “_Move_.” 

Troy retreated as he started the car, purring cleanly in a higher octave, shifting into gear. 

As Dex drove out of the lot, _flexing at the curb with a rev of the gas, _Troy turned his back to face Nacho, the younger man leaning against the door’s open window. 

“...I guess ya’ heard him,” he retorted, Nacho rolling his lips and lifting his brows, sufficiently _tiffed_ in his own, reserved way. “We’re goin’ and jackin’ some _truck_, now. Can ya’ believe that shit? After all that last night? Not a call from Julius, no-nothin’? I was cool clearin’ out the Row, but all this drug shit’s gettin’ _outta_’ _hand._” Nacho said nothing as Troy handed him the tube of floor plans, pacing in place, fanning his shirt away from himself. “And what was_ all that about?” _he stopped to extend his arms, incredulous. “Him gettin’ on my ass with the uh, uh—the _Carnales_, or whatever?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” the other replied, placing the plans in his backseat, murmuring. “...and it’s _El río Bravo_,_ sabiondo_.” 

“OK,” Troy sighed after a moment, puffing smoke and focusing, rubbing his forehead and scratching at his hairline. “Our problem now is, I got no idea what the fuck we’re lookin’ for.” 

“I do,” Nacho informed, tapping his foot as he crossed it over the other. “It’s ‘BPS Co.’, same as the distributor my boss tell us about this morning.” 

“...’Kay, well, how’d it go with uh...” he made circles with his hand, “_what’s-his-face_…?”

“Toby,” he reminded, straightening to press his back to his car instead, folding his arms. “I go to try to meet with Billy, the guy from the text picture—figured he might still be around, ¿sabes? _Pero_…,” he stretched the word, until it tapered off. “Pues...” 

“_What happened?_” Troy droned, accustomed to _that pause_ by now. 

“Erm…_” _he winced, looking at him. “..._Soap.” _

Studying him, Troy blinked a few times, but hung his head when he _realized. _

“...Ah, _of course._ That’s_ nice_.” Running a hand through his hair, he gently rubbed the scabs forming on the crown of his head, sun beating down on his neck. “I’m dealin’ with a bunch’a fuckin’ _lunatics._”

“I guess some of Billy’s guys went after him,” he relayed. “They were moving something called ‘Coma.’” Troy lifted his head at the mention, raising an eyebrow. “It came to an end last night. You know this?” 

Troy stroked his fingers over his mustache, tracking down to his beard, before he relented a tired nod. 

“Yeah. I didn’t think that’d come down this way from the ‘burbs, but, yeah. That explains a lot.” Exhaling, he collected his thoughts. “Uh..._OK_, that brings us to our next little _problem_.” 

Nacho tilted his head, curious. _“Hm?” _

Retrieving his phone again, Troy flipped it open, dialing. “I take it what Dex’s after is a _big truck_, for deliveries. Most newer ones, and the one I drove for ‘em, don’t use old-fashioned keys like your car, here. These got a little chip in ‘em that sends a unique signal to a computer inside the ignition in order for it to start_._ Which means, without the specific key, it’s basically _fuckin’ impossible_ to hot-wire or manhandle like the one I did last night. Not without tearin’ it apart.” 

“.._.Entonces_,” he contemplated, “...how we do?” 

“‘Bout ta’ find out.” Bringing the phone to his ear, the dial tone picked up. He walked in a small circle, fidgeting through the heat, Nacho stretching his neck as he waited. “...Hey, Sam?” He lifted his head at the other’s voice. “Yeah, hey, man, uh—quick question for ya’. Dex’s havin’ us snag a semi. Yeah. It’s like, one of them _commercial trucks_, whatever they’re called. They use_ transponder keys_, right? What’re we supposed to do with that?” 

He studied the street again, listening, clicking his tongue after a moment. “Uh-huh.”

Nacho waited, Troy glancing at him briefly, before a wave of exasperation crossed his face. “Ah, yeah…” he reached up, pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes. “Yeah, _I figured_. A’ite. ‘Kay. Thanks.” He nodded, “See ya’ soon.” 

Taking the phone away, he thumbed the _end_ key through a long sigh.

“¿Y bien?” 

“...He’s got an idea.” He replied, pocketing his phone. “It’ll be a _pain in the ass_, but, it’s _doable.” _He gestured, tiredly, to the _Bootlegger, _Nacho leaning away and opening the door. “After dropping by his place, I guess it’s on down to Poseidon Alley.”

“Toby say they operate out Scott Vice Wharf,” he explained. “That they move product every fortnight. Their trucks are probably parked there in the meantime. Billy’s wallet was empty and his keys gone, so, whoever he drove for made sure we’d find nothing.”

Troy nodded, “‘Kay, yeah. ‘Course.” _If who he thought was running the factory gig, he wasn’t surprised. “_I know where that is. Ya’ up for this? I can do it myself, if ya’ wanna’ sit this one out.” 

Shooting him a look, he sat down, peering at him hopefully and propping a sandaled foot on the rollbar. “No será nada para nosotros, _como siempre_, güerito. We got this.” 

Troy smoothed his hair back again, loose bangs jabbing at his eyes, before he let the spent cigarette drop to the pavement, extinguishing it with a step. “A’ite,” he let his arms drop, gesturing. “_Vamanos_.”

Smiling, Nacho shut his door, cranking the engine. 

__

Samson wandered into the sloped driveway of his shop, army-green overalls splattered in paint, his gloved hand patting the dust from his helmet of dense curls, lifting his palm in a wave as the two race cars, plum and ochre, rumbled to a halt. Halfway through a grape-flavored cigar, he lifted his full brows and smirked their way, calling over the engines as they quieted. 

“You’re both lucky sons-of-bitches, ya’ know that?” 

“That what ya’ call it?” Troy yelled back through his open window, knee propping the door, before stepping out into the sun. “All that shit you were talkin’ ‘bout sounded real fuckin’ _complicated,_ man.” 

“_Jesus,” _Samson snorted out a short laugh as Troy approached. “That’s one hell of a shiner—who _wrecked your shit_ last night, huh?” 

“He jump from a truck,” Nacho informed as he joined them, Samson nodding at him in greeting. He chewed the cigar cap through a grin, furrowing his brows in bewilderment. 

“...Ya’ don’t say?” he commented, after a moment. “Probably _shouldn’t do that_.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” Troy replied, flatly. “Walk us through this shit, huh? I gotta’ be able to do this in one shot.” 

Waving them in, he gestured they follow into the open bays, past a gutted SUV up on jack stands, another car draining oil into a pan. Entering the office, Samson nodded at his receptionist—a silent, focused thirteen-year-old clicking through _Solitaire _on the computer. “My nephew Elijah,” he briefly introduced as he patted his head affectionately, reaching down and pulling a clunky device and a wrapped cord from the desk drawer, shutting it with his knee and ushering them back into the garage. 

“Alrighty,” he began, holding it out so the two of them could see as he pulled up a rolling chair, taking a seat. “This right here’s how you’re gonna’ program a key.” 

“Uh-huh,” Troy mumbled along, looking down at the black screen and blocky buttons, the whole thing roughly the size of a scientific calculator. “What is this thing?” 

“A programmer,” He explained, simply. “I ran on down to the dealership that sells those trucks, one right here in town. I got me a spare key, since a lot of times we gotta’ fix these things without one. Usually the dealership charges a pretty penny to do it for folks, but, that’s not always an option. This device right here lets me program the key to the truck in my possession. The _problem is,” _he peered at him from beneath purple paisley, “..._it ain’t _in my possession. And, it’ll take a couple minutes. This has to plug into the truck itself, so, we can’t do it from here.” 

He held up the DVI cable, plugging it into the top of the device and winding the tiny screws into place. “The other end here plugs into the dash, beneath the steering wheel. You’ll find it. Now, c’mon over here, I’ll demonstrate.” He got up, Troy following him to the SUV, Samson digging in the pocket of his overalls for another blank key—this one for the vehicle in front of them. Opening the door, interior light illuminating, he knelt down and plugged the cable in. “Just like this, alright? Should be right around here.” 

Troy nodded, as he leaned back up, showing him the screen. “So, you’re gonna click F1, don’t worry about a password. Gonna’ scroll through and find the make of the truck, make sure it’s the U.S. version. Select ‘add a key.’ Now, it says to insert the key.” He held it up, placing it in the ignition and turning it until the dash lit up. “It’ll get juice, but it won’t turn over. Now, it says to take it out.” He did so, Troy tilting his head. “...Now we put it back in.” He repeated the process, until the screen said to remove it yet again—this time within ten seconds. 

“Fuck,” Troy murmured, irritably, as Samson lifted his brows. 

“I know man, I know. It’s tedious.” He followed the instructions on the screen, placing the key back in for a final time, while a safety access timer counted to a minute. “There ya’ have it. You’re gonna’ have to sit tight for a full minute to let it do its thing.” 

“A minute feels like fuckin’ forever when we’re gettin’ shot at,” Troy retorted, Samson shrugging. 

“Well...don’t get _shot at, then.” _

Nacho smirked as Troy stared ahead at the wall, disgruntled, the three of them waiting as the key finished. Unplugging the cord, Samson turned the key, the car starting. 

“So…I need this back,” he told him as he re-wrapped the cord, turning to face him. “Don’t get caught, and get the fuck outta’ there _quick, _alright?” He held it out to him, and Troy went to take it, before he quickly retracted it back toward his chest, “_and,” _he added, buoyantly stern as he met his eyes, “_Chill._” 

Troy exhaled, calming his nerves, nodding. “...Yeah,” he sighed. “I got it, man. Don’t worry.” 

“Alright.” He let him have it, taking another blank transponder key, this time for their truck, from his front pocket and handing it over. “I’ll be waitin’. I recommend y’all wait ‘til tonight so ya’ don’t hit rush-hour traffic. Take the back roads and go over the train tracks, through the Mills district.” 

Nodding again, Troy took a step back, craving another cigarette. Samson turned the car off, just as Nacho smiled his way, flashing the gaps in his teeth. 

“This weekend’s the second race,” he reminded, Troy looking up tiredly as Samson matched his broad grin. “You coming?” 

“You bet.” He nodded, “I ain’t missin’ it this time. What’s the payout?” 

“Ten thousand,” Nacho bit his lip, Samson _hooting_ as Troy allowed a reticent smirk, “I think we can do it.” 

“_Hell yeah_—that’s the spirit, kid.” Samson chuckled, “I’ll be there. Don’t expect me to be _designated driver,_ though, that’s y’all’s job.” He pointed to them both, before a ringing phone prompted his attention. Troy glanced at Nacho, whose humble cheer softened as Samson left the room, the creeping trepidation for the night ahead in his eyes. 

“...We got this, man.” Troy assured, Nacho tuning back in from wandering thoughts. “Don’t sweat it.” 

“Nah, it’s just…” His voice trailed, but he shook his head, relaxed disposition returning. “Nothing. Nevermind. Let’s go get something to eat.” 

Troy smirked as he lit his cigarette, squinting, a stream of smoke leaving his nose as he followed him back out to the lot. He waved goodbye to Samson through the window as he stood in the lobby with the phone to his ear, before opening his door, device in hand. 

The sun sank low on the horizon, taking its blaring heat with it. Nightfall brought humidity and mosquitoes, but a cool nip from winter’s final _Hail Mary._ Troy worked his revolver into his belt, extra bullets jingling in his pocket, device in the other. 

_At this point, standing in Nacho’s garage before a suicidal run was routine, _the washing machine and dryer thumping away behind him. 

After locking up, having had their potentially _last meal, _Nacho hid his newly-purchased SMG in the drape of his flannel shirt, hung close to his chest on a nylon strap, backpack slung over his arm. Troy raised an eyebrow as they walked for the Metro station, the chirping of crickets coming and going as they passed uncut grass and discarded cigarette butts. 

“...Sure ya’ can handle all that?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” He hummed, Troy glancing up at the empty, dark sidewalk, dotted in streetlights. 

“Hopefully_ not_.” 

Finding the familiar gloom and general _shabbiness _of the Row’s station, they climbed chipped stairs, a brief debate on whether to take the train to Ezpata or Stoughton to follow. Ultimately settling on Stoughton’s docks and warehouses district, they boarded and paid their fare, lost in the shaking silence of the tracks as a ten-minute trip carried them across town to the Southern tip of the island, and ultimately to Poseidon Alley. 

The doors parted, a dark platform greeting them as they stepped off into crisp night. Glancing around, they found the very tall, descending staircase to the empty street beneath. 

“_Geesh,” _Troy commented, as they reached the bottom, _his knees aching, _shoes thudding on cracked concrete. “...It’s a ghost town out here.” 

“These docks are huge,” Nacho added, as his eyes settled on an abandoned shipyard, enormous rusted vessels lying sideways in a drained drydock, a coastal breeze tossing his hair. The lights of distant barges shone over the water, gulls screeching from their roosts. “...A lot of history, here.” 

“Well,” Troy muttered as he pulled the ballcap low over his eyes, “Let’s get a move-on.” 

They walked down an empty paved road, skirted in flipped train cars overgrown in tall grass and thorny vines, a thousand shades of painted and repainted graffiti. The street eventually cut away to a curb, several miles of dirt road hugging the coastline, red brick buildings from the previous century crammed together along the way. The vacant Sir Thomas wharf warehouses and reception center was nearly reclaimed by the lake, infrastructure half-sunk into the sediment. 

Following the road, stepping between deep, hardened mud grooves left behind by truck tires, Troy scanned the street signs, before his attention snapped to the tallest brick building, fifty-stories high, at the heart of the port. 

“Over there,” he pointed, to the worn, black letters at the crown of the building. 

_SCOTT VICE WHARF _

Nacho followed his gesture, lips flattening as he scanned the water, turning to the blinking fireflies behind them, ensuring nobody followed.Taking the flashlight from his back pocket, Troy held it at his side as they continued on. 

Reaching another series of plain, slated trailers, “_man-camps_,” Nacho explained, their televisions blared, muted, beyond the walls, dull lights flickering through Venetian blinds. Troy turned around, spotting numbered warehouses sequenced in a row, the Scoff Vice Wharf building just at the end, skirting the quay. A hundred cargo bins, stacked and ready, as well as various skids loaded with plywood and other products, sat wrapped in plastic down in the yard. Ducking down behind a twisted tree and some overgrown chain link fencing, he tilted his head back to peer at the behemoth crane, as tall as the building itself, used to lift those massive crates onto docked barges. 

_It was empty, for now._

Down in the yard, he could spot only a few men walking in their reflective vests, more than likely heading out for the night as shifts rotated. He followed their steps, until his gaze stopped at the furthermost tip of the quay, just shy of the drop into black, choppy water. 

_Three trucks, parked in a neat row. _

“...There,” Troy motioned, crouched in the grass, Nacho nodding briefly before he swallowed. He noted the spotlights skimming the water’s buoys in slow, sweeping beams, just as a low horn bellowed, followed by clanking bells. “...Any ideas?” 

Nacho took his backpack from his arm, unzipping it, several loaded magazines inside. _Expecting more Molotovs, _he was surprised to see beneath them, however, wadded, reflective polyester, lime green to match. Taking it out, the vest unrolled, and Nacho handed it over. 

Troy stared at the wrinkled mesh fabric_. _

_Ding_. 

“...You’re _kidding_.” 

“Nobody will know,” He explained, sliding his arms into the vest and buckling it at his abdomen, pushing up his sleeves_._ “There’s a lot of workers. It’s our only shot.” 

“I’m about _as convincing as_—” 

“Nobody’s gonna’ stop to _critique your wardrobe, _güey, _sólo vístete._” Reaching further into the bag, he pulled two stacked hardhats, blue, and a set of gloves. Troy brought the oversized vest up his arms, draping loosely from his shoulders, removing the ball cap and Nacho stuffing it in the bag. Troy put the hardhat on next, confused as a strap dangled in his face, before Nacho reached over and rotated it the _other way_ on his head. 

_Off to a great start. _

Putting on the gloves next, Nacho rose, zipping the backpack again and putting his arm through the strap. They descended the bank, stepping onto concrete, walking nonchalantly through the chain link gate and stepping around the automated gate arm and unmanned ticket booth, finding the sidewalk that connected the trailers. Walking beside the Scott Vice Wharf building, trucks nearing from beneath the crane, Troy checked his peripherals repeatedly. 

“...There’s the truck,” he murmured, as they approached the semi on the end. “Cover me.” 

Nodding, Nacho stayed alert as they stepped up to it, Troy ducking slightly as he tried the driver’s door. 

_Locked. _

Nacho casually did the same on the passenger’s side, noticing the window down. The door opened, console light illuminating. Surprised, he stepped back down and away as Troy quickly rounded the front end, hurrying to the open door. Just before entering, he paused to look at the bright red letters printed on the side of the trailer bed.

“‘_Big Package Shipping Co.,’”_ he read in a hushed voice, “...’We come faster’—_Jesus Christ,” _he shook his head and climbed into the cab, Nacho snickering quietly. Taking a cigarette between his lips, he hurriedly lit it, closing the door and lying on his side across the seats. Immediately _calmed, _and working quickly, he fished the device from his back pocket, flashlight on the floorboard, plugging the snaking cord into the dash. As the screen lit up, F1 prompt blinking, he followed the instructions with key in hand. 

Nacho leaned against the door, scanning the lot with dark eyes, before two men walking caught his attention. He quickly dug his phone from his pocket, reaching up and into the open window, tapping Troy’s bent knee repeatedly, “Oye—_rápido,_” he whispered, urgently, “gimme’ your cig.” 

“_What?_” He leaned up, incredulous. 

“_¡Ahora!_” 

Troy did, inhaling another puff before handing it to him, Nacho quickly taking it in his lips and flipping open his phone, leaning against the truck’s door again, clicking through it mindlessly. 

The two dock workers passed by without so much as a lift of their heads, as Nacho leaned, believably, as someone on their break. Glimpsing them as they moved out of sight, Nacho’s shoulders relaxed and he exhaled, scrunching his nose to the smoke while he passed it back to him. “..._Here,” _he said, peeking over the window frame. “What’s the progress?” 

“Workin’ on it,” Troy replied, sharply, inserting the key and turning it for the first time, removing it as instructed. Clicking through the prompts, he repeated the motion, Nacho watching down the road, before he realized the headlights were flashing. “_Chinga—” _He hissed, startled, “Troy, headlights!” 

“Fuck,” he mirrored, hand snapping up to the console, fumbling for the dial. He turned it, lights dimming to darkness again, Nacho spinning around, hand on the gun beneath his shirt, heart pounding.

“_Dumbass!_” 

“I’m _sorry, _a’ite?” Troy spat, inserting the key for the final time, watching as the security measure timer started. “OK, OK—” he told him, “it’s started, one minute.” 

Nacho tapped his foot, antsy, as he spun again, checking the empty, winding road. They waited, painfully, _in silence_, Troy watching the numbers increase at an _agonizingly slow pace. _“_C’mon...c’mon…!_” He murmured at it, fingers trembling, as smoke pooled from the corner of his mouth. “_Fuckin’ today…!_” 

“Hey, you—_chaparrito_!” Troy heard, suddenly, _an uncomfortably friendly and unknown voice, _from beyond the dash. He flattened down, eyes darting to Nacho, only the top of his head visible, as he straightened outside the window, lifting his chin in tense preparation. 

“¿Me hablas a mí?” He called back, summoning his machismo. 

“Yea, ven aquí un minuto.” A man and two others approached him, _the two stevedores from before, _the man at the head of their group dressed in simple loose-fitted clothes and a buttoned shirt, eyes carrying a coy, intimidating hint of fierceness, down to his gait. Nacho swallowed, still leaning on the fender, as he kept his phone open, calmly. 

The man tilted his head, looking him head to toe before a shaped brow arched, “¿Qué haces aquí?” 

“Estoy esperando un viaje a casa...” he replied, simply, in his laid-back, _almost sleepy_ twanging drawl. 

“¿Es así?” he shifted his weight, tone _amused and snappy_, Troy listening with a held breath and his cigarette burning away. “¿Cómo es que nunca te había visto antes, huh? ¿Estás perdido?” 

“Soy nuevo...” Nacho shrugged, _convincingly harmless_. 

“Ahh…OK,” he sniffed, breaking off into a white smile. “¿Cuál es tu nombre?” 

Clenching his jaw, Troy gripped the handle of the revolver in his belt, bringing it down to the floorboard. _He’s not buying it, man—don’t need the fuckin’ Rosetta Stone to figure that out…! _

_58...59...1:00_

Just as his lips parted to speak, the engine turned over, rumbling and firing, Nacho ducking quickly as the three men shirked. Brandishing a pistol from his belt, the man aimed with a tilted hand, firing, bullets piercing the truckbed just as Nacho took off running around the front of the second truck, sprinting around the back. Scattering, hollering, one of the stevedores ran for the driver’s side, grabbing the handle, yanking at it a few times as he realized it was still locked. Troy stayed low, reaching over and grabbing the window crank and unrolling it, throwing his left arm out the newly-cracked window and the stevedore coming face-to-face with the revolver. 

Nacho dodged more bullets whizzing by his head, a startled gasp leaving his lips at the _boom_ of Troy’s magnum, covering his ears as he ducked, parting his flannel for the SMG. He worked the strap over his head, freeing it, just as he rounded the back end of the truck again, the confrontational _Carnale_ hot on his heels.

His grunts echoed out behind him as he raised his arm, shooting again, sending Nacho doubling over as he neared the driver’s door, the body of the stevedore lying in a pool of blood just ahead. Nacho regained his footing, whipping around, SMG in hand. As soon as he raised the black steel, the pursuing _Carnale_ _hit the deck, _jerking his body away for cover as Nacho squeezed the trigger. Firing, and _just as startled_, he held his breath as he raised another hand to stabilize the gun, shocked at the noise and _stinging kick_, _as well as the relative ease and effective results. _

A stream of bullets pelted holes in the neighboring truck, acrid smoke strong, shells clinking on the pavement—and once his pursuer had ducked back behind the bed, he broke aim and bolted for the driver’s door. 

“Get in, man!” Troy shouted, door propped ajar with his foot, Nacho throwing himself up the step, just as more men—_a dozen more, armed to the teeth_—ran from the warehouse and the camps near the entrance. 

Nacho vaulted over Troy while he yanked the device free, slinging the SMG out the window and spraying bullets into the blackened parking lot. Screams cried out in confused chaos from behind, their response an entourage of bullets to match his. Troy hunched down, slamming the door shut, arm cranking the shifter with a sharp breath. The truck roared, its engine creaking, but it was _devastatingly slow_ to accelerate. 

“Is this thing _gonna’ fuckin’ go_?” He barked, voice cracking, drowned in rapid gunshots. Nacho fired more rounds, empty shells filling the cab, catching a guy in the chest and barely having time to watch him crumple to the pavement. “_Some time this year,_ motherfucker!” 

Finally the truck’s rolling tires picked up speed. It rumbled across the wharf, trailer rattling, _shit sliding around everywhere in the back,_ Carnales thugs rushing for them frontside and shooting at the windshield. 

“Get down!” Troy hollered, grabbing the Nacho by the back of the head. They both dove beneath the dash again, practically halfway sunk to the floor as the pang of bullets deafened. Foot still on the gas, Troy gritted his teeth and jerked the steering wheel to the side with his knee, a scream and _thump_ to follow. The windshield’s glass cracked, but didn’t shatter; instead it splayed out a kaleidoscope of veins, forcing him to squint through already challenged visibility. 

Eyes wide, Nacho turned and glanced up, a trail of smoking holes in the seat where _his head used to be_. Chest heaving, he held a shallow breath, twisting his body and firing out the window again with steely resolve. The flashing lingered in his eyes, the explosive staccato of gunfire ringing his ears. Still, he watched as two, three Carnales fell, only stopping when the trigger clicked _empty_. He dipped back into the cab, sinking down to the floor again, digging in his backpack and quickly snapping another magazine in place. 

Troy steered the truck around, the back trailer swinging heavily, tires skidding and jumping, squealing out from beneath the overlapping _pops_. His eyes darted between the fence and the building, and the automated gate up ahead. As soon as he pressed the gas, rapidly accelerating toward the ticket booth’s exit, a Carnales lowrider ploughed through the chain link gate, filled with reinforcements, immediately firing in their direction—_aiming for the tires._

“Fuck!” he hissed, hands crossing, slamming the brakes, the truck skidding as he forced the turn into a hard right. Nacho continued to shoot, hanging out the window as he delivered suppression fire, causing their pursuers to duck behind the building and their cars. “Hey—!” Troy yelled, glancing at him. 

Nacho didn’t hear him, gritting his teeth as he fired at the engine of the crimson car, piercing the gas tank, gasoline spewing onto the asphalt much to the panicked cries of its passengers. Sirens wailed, now, piercing and shrill in the distance, adding to the chaos. The spotlights angled into the windshield, Troy squinting and ducking low to see through a single patch of unbroken glass, the only thing _louder_ the sound of his _own, drumming heartbeat. _

The truck barreled toward the second fence, smashing through rubbish bins and over bumper blocks, forcing the wheels to buck. Nacho was thrown with it, tossing him against the window frame and then dropping him again, slamming into his diaphragm. He inhaled sharply with a pained yelp, nearly dropping his gun and breaking his aim. Their assailants noticed the pause in fire and began shooting wildly in response, bullets ricocheting off the door. His arms clumsily came to cover his head, before Troy flung out an arm across the cab, snatching his collar, yanking him back into cover by the shirt. He then slammed his arm against his chest, forcing his back to the seat.

“Fuck—!” He stomped, trying, but shaking his head. “I got _air brakes_ man—I can’t stop again! Hang on!”

Eyes wide and breath catching, Nacho could see the fence, leading to a _drop—who knew how deep—_fast approaching through spotted vision. He brought up his knees, pushing his feet against the dash and bracing himself.

The truck crashed through the electric fence, barbed wire catching in the grill and dragging the twisted metal behind them. His neck sharply jerked forward on impact, a startled grunt falling from his lips. Troy unpinned him, hand darting back to the wheel as the truck careened down the grassy bank, bouncing as it hit a run-off ditch, narrowly missing a telephone pole. The wire snapped, sparking madly, as suddenly every streetlight along the wharf blinked out into a cascading darkness. 

Troy sucked in a breath, forcing the wheel against the turn, _hard_, counterbalancing the trailer behind to keep them from rolling. The trailer smashed against an overturned abandoned bus, shattering its glass, but remaining upright as half the tires left the ground, slamming down again. Straightening out the wheel, he floored the gas, throttle straining, truck speeding along the dirt road. The trailer bounced, kicking up a plume of dirt behind them, just as _Carnales _ran, hopelessly_ on foot_, out into the darkness after them—still firing. Nacho’s hands fumbled at the gun to reload yet again, palming a new magazine into the base, a spare clenched _between his teeth this time_, as he whipped around and fired a full round in their general direction. As they shrank in the distance, scrambling back to the wharf for desperate reinforcements, they soon faded in the dust. 

Lifting his wrist, barrel to the sky, Nacho’s swallowed against a raw throat, narrowing dry eyes, deafened by the wind. As he calmed, his brow set low, he leaned back into the cab, taking the magazine from his teeth just as— 

Troy’s sudden, victorious_ laughter_ brought him to jump, attention snapping to him, _horrified_. The blonde’s face was flushed, cigarette bobbing from his lips, hands gripping the wheel with such strength his fingers were pale. With a heavy breath, and unwavering focus, he peered through loose hair tossing wildly from the open window. “And that’s _how I got my CDL_, baby—_alright!_” He laughed again as he slapped the wheel, “_fuck, _man_, _that was _some shit!” _

Nacho stared at him, an awestruck grin slowly unfolding across his lips. He cocked the SMG, watching the rearview mirror for pursuers, wind whipping at his own hair.

Troy sped down the dirt road until it met asphalt again, before turning the tractor trailer onto it, passing through Stoughton again. Nacho raised an eyebrow as he noticed the rhythmic clicking of the turn signals, in the otherwise tense silence.

Only one remained, the other half-shot and hanging off the back end in a tangle of wires, and something about it brought him to stifle_ his own laughter_, manifesting as the casual clearing of his throat. 

Troy glanced at him a few times, increasingly demanding. 

“..._What?” _He_ squawked_, Nacho shaking his head and looking out the window, a bright smile to follow. 

___ 

Samson lifted the back gate, the three of them leaning over as they peered down the stretch of the trailer beneath the warm glow of his shop’s lights, safely obscured behind closed garage doors. Bags of detergent flopped over, some spilled, white granules smeared in a floral-scented mess across the steel. 

“Well…” Samson said, slowly, raising an eyebrow as he brought his hands to his hips, “Three guesses what’s in there.” 

“See? I was right.” Troy commented, a fresh cigarette in hand. “I knew I was right. I knew it all along_ it was fuckin’ detergent_, I told ya’,” he pointed at Nacho, who humored him with a _quirked brow, _Samson sighing as he looked at the tubes of light shining through the bullet holes. 

He scratched his head, chewing on his cigar cap. “I got my work cut out for me fixin’ up this puppy. Still,” he shrugged, gripping the handle and stepping up into the bed with a huff, boots thudding inside. “Could be a _lot worse.” _He gestured, hands extended, before letting them fall back to his sides as he turned a few times. “Y’all did pretty good keepin’ her in one piece, I’ll give ya’ that.” 

Troy propped an elbow on Nacho’s shoulder, the shorter man subtly smirking at the _playful humiliation_ as Troy took a drag, “But we _got it,” _he expressed in a _rare mood, _exhaling smoke_. _“And we_ ain’t dead_, and nobody tailed us to the Row. Those fuckers ran all over the place like a bunch of fuckin’ _morons; _it’ll be awhile before they even realize what hit ‘em.” 

“Good, ‘cuz I’m gonna’ need a week at _least_.” He replied, patting the pockets to his canvas overalls, finding his phone. He flipped it open, before stepping back and taking a picture of the damage, shutter flashing. “Dex’s gonna’ have to be patient.”

“Yeah, that reminds me.” Troy droned, reaching for his own phone, still leaning on Nacho—_now a bit more obvious—_as he squinted at the screen, texting. “‘Got...it.’ There.” He clicked send, before returning it to his pocket, Samson snorting and shaking his head. “_And,” _he added, “we know where the factory is and what’s in it.” 

“Yeah...Toby’s lookin’ to keep in contact for more deals down the road, so, good on you, kid.” Samson nodded at Nacho, who lifted his chin proudly. “We could probably work something out with him regardin’ disposin’_ all this shit. _It ain’t a good idea to keep it, let alone keep it _here._” He kicked a bag aside, before looking down at the two of them, breathing his own stream of grape-scented smoke. “...Shit’s about to get _real interestin’.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took long again. I've had this chapter planned since before the fic ever started, with this mission meant to be its own one-shot.  
I'm glad it got to see the light of day this way, with considerable reworking. It was fun, regardless. This one's extremely long, at 9100 words or so, but I don't think it feels like it. 
> 
> Anyway, Toby's great. Samson's great. I love em both.  
Nacho and Troy are idiots and share one brain cell, the usual. 
> 
> Writing can be such a bummer, but I feel accomplished finishing this.|  
Very excited for the next one.
> 
> Edit: I forgot to mention that Dex's car is based on a 2005 Porsche 911 Carrera S Cabriolet...  
Have to include that, just because. It's also a Raycaster in the game, which I fixed.


	17. The World Dragon Tour

_—“So, this’s it, huh?”— _

_—“End of the line?”— _

He watched the waves crashing on the coastline, meeting the sediment’s slope with choppy sloshing, flecks of algae settling at the rocks. Inhaling, the ember glowed at the end of his cigarette, crooked from a crowded pocket, exhaling with a stream of smoke carried off in the breeze. 

_—“There’s a lot of things we can’t control, son.”— _

_—“But, there’s plenty that we can, _

_if you’re willing to make some tough choices.—” _

Squinting, the sun caught in his eyes tinted them amber, ringed in dark circles. He remained still with slightly parted teeth— as if caught between words—studying the ripples of bass stirring, before shifting and taking another drag. 

_He remembered how the paramedics moved with numbed slowness in their crinkled uniforms, shoes in the tide, caution tape blocking off the wharf, spectators gathered beyond, performing empathic gazes and riled by the promise of action. His aching hands shook on the rail, frozen in the onset of Lake Michigan’s creeping, sterile winter and deafening wind, heart pounding and nauseated from his third sleepless night. A slow, shuddering breath left his nose and ended in chattering teeth behind closed lips, shutting his eyes to the mosaic of dizzying, blurry lights below. _

_—“Justice?”— _

_—“Think you’re right?” — _

_—”Would you kill to prove it?”—_

Stilwater’s buildings loomed in the day’s end, dots of lit windows across the coast and bridge, a mirrored picture warped in wine-colored water, commuters and cars speeding along the highway to find home after a long work-week. Their horns still blared, dragging his attention upward through pale lashes, muffled by the bay, battering and echoing in the concrete, grates thumping as they crossed—another world beyond the hushed goldenrod and wheatgrass he crouched in. 

_— “You fucked up. Nothin’ can fix that. _

_What you need now’s a chance.” _

_—“But, we’re gonna’ have to make a deal.”— _

Troy lowered his eyes at the sound of his phone beeping.

He listened to it ring a few times, _disruptive in every sense of the word_, before the chime ended. Reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket, soft and faded from wear, he flipped open the screen and faced the sudden blooming glare, thumbing the end key and silencing the alarm he’d set. 

_8:00 PM. _

He plucked the cigarette from his lips, tapping it out on the bottom of his laced boot— fitted jeans tucked into the tops, per the dragstrip’s standards. Turning, he pitched the spent nub into the chained trash bin before trudging through hardened clay up the chipped bank. 

_Supposed to be bringing down the body trade._

_Supposed to be choking the largest coke handle in the Great Lakes region. _

_Supposed to be doing something to stop the murders and the corruption and the kidnappings. _

_Supposed to be a lot of things. _

_This ain’t one of them._

Stilwater’s boonies were alight with excitement, with Diaulos Raceway the centrifuge. Trucks, vans, and trailers crowded the dirt road leading through the woods to the track—spotlights soaring up into dark clouds, tracing erratic paths, visible from the highway. The previously serene fields now filled with blasted music and tents, tailgaters and canopies propped outside RVs, the waterfall—_la cascada_— still glistening beyond the shadowed rocks. 

_The energy approached stifling real quick. _

The lake sparkled in the neon, an airplane blinking in the distance as it came in for a landing on the strip of island far across the water. He could see the bleachers packed to their limit, people leaning over on the rails as they watched the cars rip past for their final test runs, spitting candy-colored flames from their tailpipes, flags billowing in their wake. Teens recently freed from the clutches of the school year moved in packs across uneven ground spotted in new spring grass, the denizens of Stilwater appearing quaintly _normal_ despite the machinations he was increasingly aware of. 

_And was now a part of. _

He caught a glimpse of_—what’s-his-name_, _Enrique_— waving people on ahead as he scribbled on his clipboard, a handful more just like him in green checkerboard caps and T-shirts with the Raceway’s logo. Troy pocketed his hands and stepped around the concourse barriers, people selling scrap and parts laid out on cardboard from their lawn chairs in the grass, hunched over paper plates filled with everything that could be grilled or put on a stick. He noticed a man with a long-lense camera hanging from his neck among them, chatting giddily with one of the staff beneath a wide-brimmed sun hat. ‘Press’ was neatly printed on his hi-vis vest. 

_Avoid that guy._

As he neared the gate, he held up his wrist—neon green paper band secured, white dragon logo snaking around it, staff nodding him through to enter the pits. Rather than a hundred _Carnales_ stares like his previous visit, he was met by garages packed with custom cars, mirror to mirror, and their attentive enthusiasts, oddly _grave_ as they painstakingly attended their vehicles before the elimination races began, admirers tapering off to take their seats. 

Troy walked, methodically, down the main stretch of asphalt to where his _Vegas _waited, before spotting the rusted, orange _Bootlegger _parked along the furthermost space beside his, hood up, heat wafting off the engine block, looking right at home against the sun-fired clay and glittering Lake. Samson hurried around to the propped hood, wiping his hand on the tack-rag dangling from the back pocket of his jeans, carrying a dented coffee can serving as a coolant catch. 

He noted the white shoe-polish and credentials marked on the passenger-side windshield. 

_#70_

_ET: 10.02_

_That car’s incredible. _

Nacho’s bandana-wrapped head popped up from behind the Bootlegger’s fender, tire pressure gauge in hand, glancing at Samson work before stepping around to the other side. He was clad in a new alternating orange and black fireproof racing jumpsuit, but the legs were too long on him, resulting in the knee-pads sagging more at his shins. His arms were out of the sleeves, bunched up and tied at his waist instead, the old white T-shirt beneath dotted in holes from the moths snacking on it. 

Something about the sight drew his thoughts to the present, a smirk tugging at his lips —_as warm as it was tired. _

Hearing his boots, Nacho looked up from his crouched position beside the tire, checking over his shoulder. 

“¡Llegas tarde!” He called to him, standing, pollen and dandelion seeds floating in the tall grass behind him. “No puedes perdértelo, vato—te necesito aquí, peleando conmigo, _con nosotros._” 

Troy noted his aghast display, cocking his head slightly. “Hey, I’m here doin’ my_ friendly duties_, a’ite? Don’t talk ta’ me about bein’ _late_.” He countered—_the only part he understood._ Left with the buzzing of crickets and dragonflies, a train blared in the distance before evaporating into the sounds of burning tires and revving engines. “A schedule for you’s a_ suggestion, _anyway._”_

“We have to make orientation or they won’t let us race,” he insisted, eagerly, closing the distance between them. “The track’s slick, an’ is kinda’ _hot out. _So, unless it cools off come nightfall, is a tuner’s game tonight.” 

“That’s what’s bringin’ in the cash, man.” Troy replied, a little listless. “The driftin’ thing’s really the _‘in’_ deal right now, and I imagine we’ll see plenty of Rollerz tonight.” 

“It gives me problems. I don’t know if they’ll glue it down or what, but I had trouble at start on my bye-run,” Nacho continued, a bit flighty, opening and closing his fists at his sides and generally unable to keep still. “ ...An’ I don’t feel well about my ET,” he clicked his tongue, fidgeting. “Podría haberlo hecho mejor, ese no es momento de arruinar las cosas…Look at these cars,” he said in a half-whisper. “All restored and modified and worth thousands..._shiny,_ they weren’t here last years.” 

“Ya’ nuts?” The blonde snorted, glancing at the number on his windshield again. “Ya’ definitely_ made it,_ man, you’re a half-second slower than me —_and_ that’s comin’ from a basicallyunmodifiedcar.” 

“Really feelin’ that fact, too,” Samson added as he recapped the coolant reservoir. “It’s runnin’ hot, and they’re doin’ hot laps this time, I ain’t gonna’ have much time to re-tune. Once these races start, it’s back-to-back,” he made a loop with his finger in the air. “The problem with this thing ain’t gettin’ it to _go—_ah, naw, it _goes, believe me_—the trouble’s gonna’ be gettin’ it to fuckin’ _stop.” _

“Saw that first-hand,” Troy reminisced, earning a _pointed look_ from Nacho. 

“This’s _3,100 pounds of steel_ goin’ 120 mph; you can kiss these brakes goodbye after tonight.” He explained, shaking his head. “Glad it’s Top 8 and not _Top-Anythin’-Else_. When this’s all done, we’re taking this _right back_ to my place— I can’t let ya’ drive around like this.” 

“I listen to my car,” Nacho assured quietly, as Troy peered at him with growing concern. “No te preocupes.” 

“What’s _bullshit _is that they ain’t lettin’ us bring nothin’ back here,” Samson continued, rather loudly, shuffling away from the hood. “Yeah,” he nodded at Troy’s confused expression, holding up an index finger. “_One _crew memberpermitted per car, _one,_ and nothin’ back here except what ya’ can put in the trunk, but it’s gotta’ be outta’ there ‘fore the race. All this ‘cause ‘_sabotage,’ _but anybody can _jam a potato in a tailpipe_, know what I mean?” His hands dropped to hips, chewing his lip a moment, sweat beading his eye sockets. “...This shit ain’t _safe._ I can’t do any real maintenance like this—what’s ‘crew’ mean then, huh? A cheerleader? I supposed to stand here and ask the _thirty-seven-year-old _muscle car to _pretty-please _not _break?” _

Troy was caught in an awkward sigh, lips parting to speak, but the PA system gurgled over him. 

“_Attention Diaulos Raceway: Welcome to the final event of the World Dragon Tour, as spring comes to a close and we usher in an exciting summer. The Top 8 of our two respective classes have been decided, taking into account all who entered and won during our qualifying nights.” _

A wave of fanfare erupted from the grandstand, carried on the wind and in the trees, seemingly clashing with the bated silence that settled over the pits. Troy looked at Nacho, who stood_ too still _now, staring restlessly— and very _worriedly_—at the asphalt.

It brought him pause, watching Nacho’s shift in mood—brows knitting. 

_Suddenly got the sense this wasn’t just about racing. _

_“First and foremost,” _the announcer continued_, “we’d like to thank you for your participation, and after the main event, all who entered will be paired off into consolation rounds that will run until midnight. Your cars may stay in the pits until then, after which they will be towed, no exceptions. The races will function in paired elimination, featuring the Street Savvy Class, Number 8 versus Number 1, Number 7 versus Number 2, and so-on, as well as the Nostalgia Supercars Class in the same bracket format. Staging lane choice will be decided by chip draw in front of the grandstand. Now, without further delay, the fastest cars —two of which’ll drive away tonight $10,000 heavier.” _

Listening, _mostly, _ his gaze wandered to the flapping lime green tarps overhead, before shifting back to Nacho again. He remained motionless and unsure, the _hopelessness_ occupying his eyes painfully reminiscent of the way he stared at that crack in the pavement the very same afternoon he wandered into the church’s cemetery. 

_Enough of that to go around. _

Checking to see if anyone looked his way, Troy locked his jaw and stepped nearer to him, extending an arm and loosely hooking it around his neck, tugging him a bit closer and leaning down to meet his height. 

“‘Ey man, _breathe,_ c’mon.” He pepped, Nacho raising his head—_startled_. “I get it you’re a little _edgy,_ but look’it all these _old farts _floatin’ ‘round in the _wind_ here, huh? No way in hell six of ‘em beat’cha out, ya’ kiddin’ me?” He gestured with a nod to the other stoic, prospective winners—a subtle, confused smile creasing Nacho’s face, before he timidly glanced at him. “They ain’t got _jack_ on your car; you’re gonna’ show ‘em it takes more than a _mid-life crisis _and a 401Kto win this thing, right?” 

He dipped his chin modestly, masking the ungraceful snicker that replaced his disquiet. Troy gave him a hearty squeeze, ending in a couple of supportive slaps, before stepping away and reaching for another cigarette. 

_“For the Street Savvy Class, “ _The announcer resumed, “_congratulations to #27 Mockingbird, #38 Halberd, #47 Capshaw, #4 Raycaster, #79 Vortex, #31 Zimos, #22 Voxel,” _Troy flicked his lighter, listening — _same make as Lin’s. “And #15, Quasar!” _

Nacho pressed his tongue to his labret, fiddling with it, the crowd screaming from beyond the garages for the most anticipated class—several racers in the pits hanging their heads and muttering strong words under their breath, while Troy was busy swearingat his sputtering lighter. 

_“And now for the Nostalgia Supercars Class: congratulations #12 Hollywood, #14 Ruckus, #63 La Fuerza, #23 Caballero, #104 Gunslinger, #88 Hammerhead, #76 Vegas,” _Nacho sucked in a breath— _“and #70, Bootlegger! All drivers please report to the staging lanes for your drivers’ meeting!” _

Bending at the knees and hands snapping up, Nacho’s eyes went wide —unsure if he’d _heard correctly_—Samson’s hoots and clapping, and Troy’s _told-ya’-so _smirk encouraging his relieved exhale.

“Ay—” he breathed, a bright smile breaking as he pressed his face into his hands, Troy nudging him as he finally got his cigarette lit.

“Ya’ did good, kid!” Samson called, lowering the _Bootlegger’s_ hood with a creak and thump. “Now, get a move on—get goin’. I’ll get ‘er ship-shape in the meantime.” 

Nacho nodded, still grinning and starting toward the lanes. Troy hissed smoke between his teeth and lifted his chin in thanks at Samson —_tiredly, but confident—_matching Nacho’s excited pace. The spotlight in the lowering sun stretched their shadows over the blacktop, loud chattering and cries of the crowd growing louder as they passed through the gate. 

The racers made themselves clear enough, donned in jumpsuits and carrying their helmets under their arms, Nacho _looking _out of place, but Troy _feeling_ out of place as they joined the pack, ushered into a sectioned off area outside the kiosks by sweaty staff. Some took seats in the limited fold-out chairs, _—which they conveniently didn’t have enough of — _and others opted to cluster and chatter, the gathering taking on a volume to match the bleachers in moments. 

Troy loosely folded his arms and leaned against the brick wall, smoking quietly, Nacho hovering anticipatingly at his side and watching as more racers, some bringing their crew members, joined the group one after another. It was easy enough to tell the street car racers, the majority of them eccentric young men with wild hair, wilder attitudes, _and a notable preference for blue_. Some of their heads turned to size the Saints up, but became bored after a couple glances, Troy listening to them talk all things _cars and partying_ without the slightest inclination or care for who might overhear. 

Nacho glanced at him, pressing his back to the wall as well, leaning around him slightly to watch the new faces as they arrived. 

“I don’t see him,” he commented, Troy raising an eyebrow. 

“...Who?” 

“The Gunslinger guy,” he replied, eyes following each person. “They call his car. Weird.” 

Contemplating, but distracted, he glimpsed the sketchy bathrooms across the lot—_immediately bringing a sour taste to his mouth_. “I dunno’, man; maybe he got cold feet.” 

Nacho made a sound that summed up _laughable disagreement, _Troy raising a brow, before an old redneck wearing a ball cap and a nicer shirt than the rest joined them, clipboard in hand. 

_Race Director. _

“OK—settle down, listen up,” he called over the crowd, “First off I’m gonna’ take roll call. Once that’s done I’ll go over the rules for safety and how the staging’ll go, then I need y’all to line up over there for a second breathalyzer,” he pointed with his ballpoint pen to a fold-out table, and a female security guard waiting in rubber gloves. Jeering followed from the rowdier crowd, Troy watching them horse around before the Race Director continued. “Raise your hand when you’re called.” 

He began the listing, one name after another for the Street Cars Class, butchering eight Chinese and Korean names before it was Nacho’s turn to hear him fumble through _Cuāuhtli Torres. _He didn’t know the tuners, even as their owners boisterously announced their presence. 

_New recruits, maybe. _

The only one that didn’t speak was a petite figure in a monochrome hooded sweatshirt, back turned at the front of the gathering, simply raising their hand. He recognized the familiar face of the _Caballero’s _owner, as he stood with his helmet in hand, overflowing in good sportsmanship and as perky as ever, blissfully unaware of his competitors’ intentions—_them included._

Troy almost didn’t notice when his own ‘name’ was called, despite running it through his head a thousand times to respond to ‘_Johnson_.’ He quickly lifted his hand, nodding once and the Director taking note. 

Following through with the breathalyzer in a single-file line, _the sterilization leaving a lot to be desired, _they returned to their spots to listen to the strict procedures for the night. Antsy, Troy bounced his knee, nudging Nacho again. 

“...They really got bitchy ‘bout the rules this time, huh?” He commented, and his companion smirked, looking up to the spotlights brightening as the sun was beginning to set, streaking the sky in bruised hues, clouds whisked away on a heavier wind. 

“You see all the people—it’s a once a year tournament.” He paused, feeling the fresh breeze on his warm face. “...This’s a_ lotta’ _money.” 

“Yeah, and I ain’t so keen on it endin’ up in our friends’ here’s hands, neither.” He murmured in reply, the younger man’s lips forming a line. “...That Roller over there’s in our bracket,” he lifted his chin slightly at racer #12 in the _Hollywood_, a young white guy looking _particularly autopilot. _“...There’s still cash prizes for second and third place, but we can make sure they don’t win both championships.” 

“Si,” he exhaled, before leaning back against the wall, idly staring at his boots. 

“NSC Class goes first.” The race director continued, partway shouting over the crowd with a full voice. “Then, we’ll run the Street Cars. We’re hosting the Street Cars second this time so that all your fancy effects happen after dark, and give everybody a better show.” This evoked a round of raudy cheering from the tuners, which took far too long to settle enough to hear the director again. Troy exhaled through his nostrils, a puff of smoke going with it, waving it away from Nacho and shifting his weight. 

“...The finale race for each class will mark the end of the championship, followed by consolation. Now, the_ rules _for staging.” He lifted a sheet off his clipboard, holding it away slightly and peering down his nose at it, “You are to remain in your assigned pit stall until you are called by staff to report to the staging lanes. You need to be at your car when called, or you’ll be skipped. Anyone caught entering the staging lanes before their time will be disqualified—no exceptions. You must follow all instructions given by staff, as safety is the first priority. After you’ve completed your run, you will park your car at your assigned spot until your next run.” He lowered the board, looking out at the racers. “Any questions?” 

“Yea—when we_ get paid_?” 

Troy scoffed, nudging Nacho, gesturing with a tilt of his head back toward the pits. 

“Pay-out’s the same, at the end of the event.” He heard the director drone on as the two of them ducked around the wall, heading back before the crowd dispersed. “...Any _other questions?” _

The noise tapered off, Nacho sighing and lifting his hands, interlocking them at the back of his neck as they walked, stepping over litter left on the concourse. 

“...Bunch’a_ tools_,” Troy muttered, tapping loose ashes from his cigarette, the other nodding. “Can’t believe Julius sent Lin to deal with those morons; she’s gotta’ be climbin’ the _fuckin’ walls._ I’d just blow up all their shit and be over it_,_ _fuck._”

“Probably why he sent her to do it,” Nacho snickered, Troy opening his mouth to reply, but pausing. 

“Well..._yeah, _but—what’s the alternative, huh?” He jabbed, “_You?_” 

Smiling, Nacho lowered his arms to his sides again as they approached the pits, finding the _Vegas _and _Bootlegger_ on the end, near the field’s edge, just as Samson was lowering the rusty hood. It thumped with a creak, the mechanic mumbling to himself under his breath as he picked up the coolant can, turning when he heard their boots. 

“Well,_ that was quick_,” he greeted, dabbing the sweat from his eye with the collar of his T-shirt. “How’d it go? Y’all good?” 

Nodding, Troy took a final inhale before letting the spent cigarette drop from his lips, stepping it out. “Lotta’ Rollerz,” he exhaled from the corner of his mouth. “One’s in our bracket, but I don’t think he stands a chance. I didn’t see any LC.”

“Even if the Gunslinger was called, he didn’t show up.” Nacho added, leaning against the fender of his car. “They would’a have to pick the racer on bump spot.” 

“Given recent events, I ain’t surprised. Pretty sure festivities are at the bottom of their list of important shit to do, right now. But hey, look at the bright side,” Samson grinned as he walked to the concrete parking block, grunting and taking a seat, nodding at the blonde. “...Least we don’t have to worry ‘bout you gettin’ _stabbed,_ huh? That is, assuming you can keep your ass outta’ drama for five minutes.”

“_Ah_—no _promises,_” Troy retorted, walking to his _Vegas _and digging for his keys, opening the door.

Static poured out overhead from the PA speakers, the announcer returning with gusto. 

“_Attention Diaulos Raceway, we thank you for joining us, and welcome you to the countdown of our first event, the Nostalgia Supercars Class!” _Troy double-checked everything was secured in the _Vegas’_ interior—_his revolver in the glovebox, notably—_ leaning back out and listening to the roaring of the grandstand. “_Our eight finalistis will be paired up for elimination, based on compatibility of dial-in times. Whoever performs closest to their time will be the victor. Now, for our first match of the primary round: #14 Ruckus vs. #70 Bootlegger, please report to the staging lanes!” _

Nacho exhaled steadily and leaned away from his car, untying the arms of his fireproof jumpsuit from his waist and pulling them on, zipping it at his chest. He reached for the door handle, a staff member waving to him in broad strokes from across the lot. 

“Alright, you heard ‘em,” Samson encouraged, shifting to dig in his back pocket for the crinkled pack of cigars. “Take it easy to start, don’t get burned down.” 

“We’ll be watchin’ from the guardrail,” Troy added, as Nacho was situating his helmet over his head, tucking his hair back away from the sides of his face. “We’ll meet ya’ here when you’re done, a’ite? Send ‘em home, man.” 

He nodded, climbing over the rollbar and into his seat, shutting his door and strapping himself in. Starting the car, the engine roaring, Samson got to his feet as Troy stepped out of the car’s path, smirking. 

“Good luck!” Samson called over the engine, Nacho nodding. They watched him drive toward the staging lanes, ushered through by staff, two red tail-lights glowing in the twilight. 

Troy glanced at Samson, the two of them hurrying back through the gate toward the grandstands. Meandering through the crowd of buzzed spectators with a wall of cacophony to their right in the bleachers, they dodged grills and lawn chairs and chained up dogs, barking away between their owners’ feet. 

_One of those ‘dogs’ looked a hell of a lot like a raccoon.  
_

“Hey, ya’ wanna’ go up? The front rows are packed like sardines,” Samson asked, nodding in gesture to the higher, emptier stands. Troy glanced up at it, flags caught in the wind, the creaking sheet metal forcing a sense of _unbalance_ as he walked hastily, shrugging past people.

“_Nah_,” he replied, huffing, following the guardrail to a clearing of cut grass, toward the middle of the track. “I’m good on the nosebleed; we’ll catch him goin’ down, even if we can’t see him kick off too clear.” 

“Alright, we better hurry.” Samson said, a step behind him. Taking a cigar in his mouth and holding the filter with his teeth, he flipped open his pack of matches, but found it was empty. “...Can I bum a light?” 

Troy rummaged in his pocket, retrieving his _crappy lighter_ and handing it back to him. Coming to the clearing, he heard Samson flicking the cheap plastic and muttering, cupping his hand around the ember. Troy leaned against the guardrail, just shy of the concrete barricades that separated him from the track, squinting down the reflectant asphalt illuminated with spotlights in dusk’s moody haze. The familiar roar of that hemi engine echoed over the fields, bright headlights spotted as the orange _Bootlegger _rolled up to the box. 

“There he is, man—he got the right lane; we’ll see him go by.” Troy pointed, the encroaching night’s wind a welcome relief to the heat as it tossed his hair. 

Samson smirked and returned the lighter, taking a few grape-flavored puffs, smoke whisked away. He squinted to the lights, watching as the second pair of headlights belonging to a battered, dented _Ruckus_ joined Nacho at the starting line. “...They paired up the _less-pretty_ cars.” 

“Yeah,” Troy scoffed, bouncing his leg, “It’s a’ite, I rode shotgun on a pass in _my_ car—I bet you, he’s gonna’ nail that RT and be right on the dot.” 

They listened as Nacho revved in the distance, each roar bringing a round of collective cheering from the spectators. Waved ahead, both cars floored the gas, burning out, tires screeching and clouds of smoke pillaring behind them, pooling out over the track in the breeze. Troy smirked, watching as the _Bootlegger_ skidded forward, front end straightening, as it triggered the second beam— the _Ruckus_ creeping up beside it. The referee stepped onto the center divider, PA system churning out narration, but Troy was too focused to listen. 

Three ambers and a blaring green prompted the deafening roar of both engines, Nacho’s reaction time _breakneck_ as promised, both cars jetting forward with squealing tires and speeding down the track. Troy took half a step back, both fast approaching as he listened to the _Bootlegger _shift gears, _once, twice_—before ripping by, powerful gale blasting them both, Samson breaking into excited laughter as he shielded his cigar. 

Troy exhaled, craning his neck up at the signs as they cleared the finish line, heat waves rippling in their wake.

“10.06!” He relayed, “What’d I tell ya’?_” _

“_Damn!” _Samson shook his head, patting bits of sun-dried cut grass from his shirt. “Yeah he _won_, alright.” 

Troy watched the tail lights as they decelerated on the horizon, exhausts crackling, popping, and echoing, slowing for turnout. Shielding his eyes, he blinked through the remnants of the day’s sun gleaming off the rust and orange paint far out into the field, the lake sparkling beyond the sand, when the PA system blared again: 

_“Congratulations to #70 Bootlegger in clearing the preliminaries! For our next match, would #63 La Fuerza and #76 Vegas please report to the staging lanes immediately!” _

Samson tapped Troy’s shoulder a couple times, wrenching him from thought, gesturing with a pointed thumb back toward the pits. “They called ya’,” he exhaled smoke, amused, “you better hurry your ass up if it plans on racin’ tonight.” 

“Wh—? _Oh, shit,” _Troy hissed as he shuffled around him, starting to run, Samson snickering. 

___

Sprinting to the pits, he spotted a staff member hovering near his car. “I’m here! I’m here,” he called, boots slapping the asphalt as he slowed, the man looking up.

“Two minutes,” he told him, tapping his wrist, Troy nodding as he breathed, stopping to prop his arm on his car’s hood. He felt the wheeze in his lungs, exacerbated by the heat and leather jacket, before looking up at the _Bootlegger _parked beside him with the hood raised. Nacho leaned on the opposite side, reviewing his time slip before catching sight of him. 

“Hey—” Troy greeted, panting. “Ya_’ killed it, _man.I told ya’ it’d work out.” 

Smiling, Nacho flicked his eyes toward the track eagerly, “You’re next güerito, ¡_apúrate! _The right lane is good!” 

Nodding, breathless, he patted his jeans for his keys, opening his door and ducking in, finding his helmet on the passenger seat. Wrangling his hair out of the way, curling from sweat, he pulled the helmet down over his face and zipped up his jacket. Starting the car, the engine fired and hummed cleanly, drawing stares, before he shouted through the open window.

“Samson’s waitin’ down on the right lane,” he told him, meeting his gaze, voice muffled by the chin guard. “‘Round the middle of the track!” 

“¡Simon!” Nacho replied, giddy, hurrying him on. “Go!” 

Troy rolled the window up to a crack, re-attaching the net before sitting back in his seat, pulling the seatbelt harness over his chest. Shifting, and backing out of his parking space, he drove and followed the staff’s directions through the gate. 

He and the _Fuerza, _its driver one of the old men he saw back at the bits, came just shy of the waterbox, the referee flipping a coin suspensefully for the pleasure of the grandstands, the cheering and PA system mitigated by the engine and his helmet. It was a welcome break, _noise drowned in noise_, one far more preferable. 

_Have to focus. _

Troy looked up as he was ushered through to the right lane—_yes,_ turning hand over hand to angle the car between the dividers. He exhaled, heart starting to pound as he pulled up to the waterbox, waiting, eyes on his temperature gauge while his opponent joined him opposite. Drumming his fingers on the wheel, he bounced his left knee, throwing down his helmet’s visor to block out the lights shining in his eyes, squinting through the windshield. 

Given the cue, flexed his jaw and floored the gas, engine singing, left hand stiff at the wheel and right on the shifter as the back tires spun, spitting plumes of smoke at the cheering crowd. He glanced at the mirrored 9.50 marked on the passenger quadrant of the windshield, all the smells of burning rubber, smoky wood, gasoline, and crisp, damp air finding him. Waved ahead, the heavy car lurched forward, triggering the laser as he wrenched the wheel into a sudden stop, keeping the chassis straightened. Breathing, he listened to the rhythm of the motor—his opponent doing the same, gleaming black _Fuerza_ seemingly lost in the encroaching night’s cover, donned in pin striping and a wheelie bar coattail. Troy glimpsed his mirror, hand on the wheel and fingers tense, before the Tree’s glow prompted his attention with bated breath. 

_Now wasn’t the time to try Nacho’s shit—_his foot jerked at piercing green, sleek purple chassis roaring ahead, bolting from the starting line, crowd blurring past as he cleared the first quarter. His opponent kicked off before him, that wheelie bar _very necessary_, and he huffed between his teeth as he watched him glide ahead several car lengths. He kept his speed steady, timing himself in held breath, speedometer climbing over 100mph as he sped past the final marker, immediately decelerating, sudden pressure at his chest as the harness kept him seated. 

Allowing himself to exhale, his eyes darted to the mirror, glancing between the slick blacktop and the electronic signs as they registered—_9.71. _

_Damn it. _

Sighing, he turned hand over hand, guiding the slowing car to the winding strip of track to retrieve his ticket. 

Troy pulled up to his parking spot, Samson waiting with his cigar dangling from his lips, hands outstretched with _wiggling fingers._ He rolled ahead until he signaled for him to stop, Troy shifting and turning the key, Samson pulling the hood pins free.

Cracking his door, he took the helmet from his damp face, disastrous hair set loose, finding relief in the open air. “..._Somethin’ wrong?” _

“Nah,” he replied, lifting the hood, squinting through the heat radiating from the engine. “Just keepin’ tabs on it; you’re runnin’ a lil’ hot, too.” 

“Ah, a’ite.” Troy nodded, “No sense in worryin’ about it anyway, man, I guess I’m out.” 

“Huh?” he asked, “_You won_, dummy.” 

“What? No, I didn’t—check it out.” He held up his time slip, Samson snorting and shaking his head. 

“Nah, kid—the _Fuerza_ got disqualified, he gunned it on yellow. _Breakout. _You’re on to the semis.” 

“You’re shittin’ me?” Troy exclaimed, Samson snickering, the blonde scoffing out a baffled laugh. He looked beyond the mechanic’s hunched shoulders in search of Nacho, maybe _half-expecting to be met by his excitement, _but didn’t see him with his car_._ Confused, he turned—instead finding his back turned to them over by the lakeside, appearing to chat with another person. 

Petite, but _still a little taller than him—_wearing the very same monochrome hooded sweatshirt and jumpsuit he spotted at orientation with the _Rollerz_, hood up. 

Brows lowering, Troy held his helmet at his side. 

“...Who’s _‘zat_?” He snipped, suspicious, Samson straightening and following his gaze. 

“...No clue,” he murmured, quietly. “Wasn’t there a second ago.”

Before he could speculate further, Troy was crossing the blacktop, stepping quickly through the tall grass and off the concrete shoulder, left hand lingering at his lower back. His fingers brushed the revolver in his belt beneath the jacket, noting the stranger’s hands in their _pockets_, Nacho’s head dipped stiffly in his usual taciturn shyness— 

_Not doing this again. _

Nacho looked up, surprised to see him, but Troy stepped between them, accusatory—_and on the offensive. _

“Hey, ‘sup—_who’re you?” _He intervened, short and _blunt_, but the individual lifted her head, a sly smile pushing up a rounded cheek from beneath the hood, inky bangs wisping over her forehead. 

“Well, _hello to you too.”_ She delivered with methodical, _biting wit,_ Troy immediately taken aback. “A little_ jumpy_, aren’t we? Should’ve guessed you’d turn into a real mother hen._” _

“_Lin?” _He asked, incredulous, while she arched a shaped brow at him. “The fuck are _you_ _doin’ here? _Ain’t ya’ supposed ta’ be—?” He stumbled through his words, “Where the hell’ve you—?”

“I can’t stick around,” she spoke in a hushed, husky voice, peppered in focus. “But, I wanted to fill him in on my plans for dealing with the Rollerz. I heard what you two’ve been up to, and for what I’m thinkin’? I’m gonna’ need that kind of firepower.” She turned her black eyes to Nacho, who peered back _artless as ever. _“...Feel like helpin’ a girl out, New Guy?” 

“Hey-hey-hey—_hang on_, time-out,” Troy interrupted. “Whattaya’ mean? You’re wantin’ to start shit with those idiots now? We’re in the middle of shit with the C—” He stopped himself, leaning a bit closer and lowering his voice. “...with those _other assholes, _a’ite? All that shit went down in a fuckin’ _weekend,_ Lin, give him a _minute._ Can’t ya’ get someone else?” 

“If I had time, I wouldn’t be here.” She shook her head. “I’m on my own right now. Johnny’s tied up in _other business.” _

“Have ya’ run it by Jul—?” 

“Who do you think sent me down here?” She tilted her head, Troy’s frustration settling into silence. Nodding at Nacho, who promptly—_and timidly—_averted his gaze, she continued. “Don’t be a stranger. Get back to me on my cell once it’s done; you got my number, but keep it brief—I don’t want to blow my cover.” She backed up a step or two, tone shifting to playful as she peered through lidded eyes, stuffing a hand in the pocket of her jacket. “...Have fun out there in those _tin cans,” _she commented, sprightfully. “Just remember you got a job to do.” 

She winked, _coyly,_ at them both before turning on her heel. 

Troy’s brows furrowed, exasperated, as she hurried along the guardrail to rejoin the crowd. 

“...Well, _that happened_.” He scoffed, watching her slip behind an RV and out of sight. Turning to Nacho, who looked _seconds away from a heart attack,_ he teasingly nudged him with a sharp elbow. “...You a’ite, man? She’s _somethin’ else,_ huh?” 

“No, I mean, that’s not—_OK_,” he stammered. “She wants me to do some things.” 

“Uh-huh? You don’t gotta’ do shit, if ya’ don’t want. I can talk to Julius.” 

_Fat chance of him listening, though. _

“...I, no sé.” He shook his head, a bit dejected.“...I want to help her. But, I got the bad feeling.” 

“Hey, this’s Lin we’re talkin’ about,” he reassured, Nacho glancing at him. “She can take care of herself, believe me. She got Gat backin’ her up, too.” 

“Is not that,” he murmured, exhaling. “...Once ‘chu start fuckin’ with people’s ride, is different from warehouses and terminals. Different kind ‘o people.” He looked up at him now, Troy listening, brows raising in concern. “New to me, this...street racing, rich kids, tuners shit, gambling...I don’t know how these _cars work_, and I only been to Little Shanghai a couple times. And the suburbs? Ay, ay, güerito, esto no es mi tipo de cosas,” he shook his head, uneasy. “Me temo que estoy fuera de mi elemento—Maldición, I stick out like a sore thumb in that scene, _mirame._” 

“The _nightlife shit_, ya’ mean?” He guessed, only able to go off of his expression, Nacho nodding once. Troy exhaled through his nose, reaching for his pack of cigarettes, tapping one free. “...Yeah, I get it. Don’t sweat it man, it’ll be a’ite. It all goes _boom_ the same, right? She wouldn’t let anythin’ happen to ya’; she’d get outta’ there before it got bad. You just gotta’ be the muscle; let her be the face of it. Plus, ya’ got Sam.”

“...Y tú?” 

Troy flicked his lighter, sputtering on him, an annoyed sigh to follow as he shook it. Giving up, he returned the cigarette to the crinkled package, nodding. “...Yeah. ‘Course. But, first thing’s first. Still got LC to fuck up; we can’t lose momentum now.” 

He nodded again, lowering his eyes, a smile eventually finding him. “...I see you_ won_.” 

“I _guess; _what’s a win if it’s by disqualification?” 

“A _win,” _Nacho replied, starting to walk back to his car, Troy at his side. “You got forward. Doubles the chances of one of us taking the prize.” 

“_Uh-huh_,” he agreed, stepping over the bumper block and back onto the asphalt, looking up as he heard his hood shut. Samson stepped around the other side, scratching his head, lifting his chin as they approached. 

“That was Lin,” Troy relayed, Samson’s brows raising, _expression telling all. _“She wants Nacho’s help with some shit later, I guess.” 

“Well… _alrighty, then._ The next two are up, if y’all wanna’ go grab a bite or somethin’ until the semis start rolling. Got a couple’a minutes, or so.” 

Troy shrugged, _mind cluttering_, setting his helmet on the hood and putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Nacho, however, grabbed his arm. “OK,” he answered for them both. “¿No quieres nada?” 

“Nah—thanks. You go on ahead.” Samson encouraged, Nacho smiling and starting for the concessions, dragging Troy along—confused, but not objecting. “I’ll be here. Gonna’ tinker a bit.” 

He watched them go until they were out of earshot, chewing on the cigar’s cap pensively, before turning away. 


	18. Don't Look Down

Troy’s sluggish drone reflected his encroaching fatigue, wrestling a vending machine for an overpriced bottle of water, Nacho returning with a bag of popcorn. Crunching, he smirked as he watched him. “There’s fountain drinks; less work.” 

“Take a guess how often they clean that shit, huh? Go on—_guess._” He glanced back at him, Nacho’s grin broadening as he chewed. Throwing his shoulder into it, Troy shook the machine, but the bottle teetered on the edge. Swearing, he took a step back. “I got enough problems; last thing I need’s fuckin’ _herpes_ from a _dragstrip_.” Kicking it, the bottle wobbled before tipping, _thumping. _Reaching down, he retrieved it from the basin, Nacho snickering and offering the bag of popcorn. 

“The next race is going. El _Caballero _against the_ Hammerhead._”

Troy scooped a few pieces off the top, popping them in his mouth and twisting the cap off his water. “Maybe if we’re lucky, the Roller in the _Hollywood_ next match will _lose _and make it easy on us.” 

They walked toward the grandstands, dodging increasingly intoxicated spectators as they managed to clear a way to the railing, squeezing between huddled people near the fence. Sighing as somebody’s shoulder rammed into him, Troy sipped his water and squinted through the chainlink. “...Looks like we just missed ‘em.”

The signs overhead reflected the _Caballero’s_ victory by a slight margin, hearing the engine in the distance. 

Nacho chewed, watching the track, before his eyes wandered to the colossal sliver of moon overhead, radiant and clear in the black clouds. 

_“_Ahh, _ba'óame_, que hermosa es...” He smiled to the crisp breeze, “Look at the moon, güerito; it’s in the waxing phase. Good time to plant _corn_, ‘cuz the seeds absorb—” he turned to him, about to say more, but paused when his gaze settled on the blonde’s profile. He followed the motion of Troy’s fingers rubbing his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose, sockets bruised, veins particularly prominent in his hand. 

Pondering, flattening his lips, Nacho tilted his head and spoke a bit louder, “Oye—you wannu' go someplace else?” 

“Huh?” Troy looked up, taking a moment to register his question, before shaking his head. “Nah, man, sorry—it’s just, uh—just the_ fumes_. Givin’ me a _headache.” _

“Ay, I like how petrol smells!” He grinned, a bit devious, Troy chuckling at his expression. 

“Yeah, not all of us_ sniffed glue_ as a kid, a’ite?” 

Nacho snorted and offered him more popcorn, standing on his tip-toes to try to see over the heads of the staff closer to the track. 

_“Congratulations to #23 Caballero on the close finish!“ _The PA system blared overhead, echoing. “_For our next and final match of the preliminaries, #12 Hollywood and #104 Gunslinger please report to the staging lanes!” _

“...¿Qué _chingados?_" Nacho exclaimed, furrowing his brows. “¡Espere! _Gunslinger_ guy didn’t show—he should be disqualified!” 

“_Yeah_,” Troy commented slowly, watching while the announcements quieted. “Pretty sure whoever let that slide’s the same one that let you race without a license.” 

“_Bueno, esto es genial.” _He fumed, eyes set on the track as the two competitors soon pulled up to the lanes, dramatic coin toss evoking screaming from the crowd. Pressing his forehead to the fence, he and Troy watched as the candy red _‘54 Gunslinger_ rumbled, in all its glory, up to the starting lane—having won the right lane. 

“...Don’t even know if the coin toss is _real_, now.” Nacho spat, bitter, Troy glancing at him before his eyes returned to the car. He couldn’t see the _Carnales_ driver through the tinted windows, marked in _ET: 9.00,_ modified engine a baritone, powerful rumble for the burnout, tires skidding as both cars halted in the waterbox. 

“...Don’t sweat it, man.” Troy calmed, noticing his silent anger, leaning his arm on the fence. “...We’ll kick his ass all the same.”

Nacho didn’t reply, but uncertainty flashed in his face, Troy exhaling as the cars took off, barreling down the track,_ the shrill screaming of a very drunk woman a foot away from his ear _forcing a grimace. Within seconds, it was over—_and_ _the Hollywood never stood a chance. _

_Not quite how he wanted that problem solved. _

_“Annnnnd...that concludes our preliminary matches! Congratulations #104 Gunslinger, our long-standing champion five years running on a very strong finish. We now move into the semi-finals of the NSC Class. Each of our four victors have been paired based on ET compatibility. So, without further ado, our first match of the semi-final round tonight are two street classics in their own right, clocking in at 10.02 and 9.50 flat respectively, #76 in the 1970 Vegas, and #70, the 1969 Bootlegger! Drivers, please report to the staging lanes!” _

Troy lifted his brows as the crowd erupted into drunken cheering—_for them, standing there, hidden in plain sight. _He stared blankly at the track, before cautiously peering down at Nacho, whose _eyes were already on him_, disposition_ brightening very quickly. _

“...Ah, _shit_.” He sighed, Nacho’s grin turning competitive, the challenging glint in his eyes stirring an urge to defend his pride—_whatever little he had winning by disqualification_. His new opponent said nothing, simply smiling and lifting his chin as he turned, dropping the popcorn bag into a trash bin, starting back to the pits with some newfound confidence in his gait. 

Troy smirked, subdued, taking a final swig of water and disposing of it, following and dodging elbows. 

_Jackass. _

Back at the pits, Samson’s refined excitement was evident as he leaned against the _Vegas, _greeting them both with acute amusement. “Oh, _this’ll be good_,” he teased. “I ain’t missin’ this for the world. You better watch yourself.” He directed his words at Troy, who took the badgering with a flattened smile. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—_’scuse me.” _He shooed, Samson leaning away, _snickering,_ from the driver’s door as Troy plucked his helmet from the hood. Pulling it down over his head, he fastened the belt beneath his chin, looking at Nacho as he did the same. Opening his creaking door, the younger man climbed over the rollbar and took a seat, starting to buckle himself in, his eyes creasing into those tell-tale dark crescents beneath the visor, indicative of a characteristic wide smile. 

“Good luck!” He called, raspy and_ coy_ as he slammed the door. “You gonna’ _need it!_” 

Troy almost rolled his eyes, Samson laughing_ mockingly _and waving them toward the gate, backing up toward the grandstand to watch. “Get your asses movin’ already! C’mon!” 

Shutting the door and buckling his harness, Troy twisted the key. Engines firing, Nacho turned out first, following the staff’s directions, with Troy close behind. 

Lights glaring on the track, all the smells of burning rubber and gasoline flooding him again, the coin toss resulted in Nacho taking the more desirable right lane. As they pulled up to the waterboxes, Christmas Tree light in wait, Troy glanced across the stretch of track to Nacho’s car, noticing his focused posture through the window—back straight, eyes on the expansive black horizon, spotlights gleaming off his rusted _tank_ idling powerfully.

_If you don’t try, he’d never forgive you. _

_He’d never forgive you for a lot of shit, for that matter. _

He locked his jaw, shifting and stomping the gas at the cue—_not the time. _

Burning out, he felt the chassis rumble, glancing to his right and seeing Nacho do the same—clearly _enjoying himself,_ smoke blanketing the track in an impressive fog before relenting, skidding ahead. Rattling the stick, Troy gripped the wheel, breathing, feeling the warmth of his breath on the chin guard. Red glowing on the Tree, the referee stepped back up onto the divider, hundreds of spectators’ dark silhouettes dotting the sidelines ¼ mile down. The moon a waypoint in the distance, he raised his head—_steady. _

_Be a good friend for five seconds. _

Those moments slowed, as they both triggered the second laser, the amber orbs blinking down, the green far brighter. He_ floored it, Vegas _launching forward, the _Bootlegger’s_ front end leaving the ground in an impressive and _terrifying_ wheelie before slamming back down again, tires squealing to the roar of the crowd. An exhilarated, astonished_ laugh_ broke free, Troy keeping his car steady as the speedometer spiked, listening to the engine, shifting as he triggered the first speed trap—racing down the stretch of track. Glancing at his opponent, he controlled his speed, heartbeat in his ears, before clearing the finish line with a bumper’s width to spare, Nacho close on his heels. 

Immediately letting off the gas, he pressed the brake, harness tugging at his chest with a sudden exhale— glimpsing his mirrors and smirking at the overhead signage—

_Nacho won. _

_That wicked RT, once again. _

Just as he returned his eyes to the shutdown track, the _Bootlegger_ shot by— tail lights flashing red, a bold glare in the empty field.

But the car didn’t slow. 

Stomach dropping, Troy watched him, within another second realizing he _couldn’t stop, _the car hurdling _120mph toward the water’s edge. _

“_Fuck!_” He screamed, breath _seizing_, eyes darting as the _Bootlegger_ skipped the bumper block and plunged into the sandtraps, a plume of sand sputtering out behind the back tires as it rapidly flooded the frame. The car spun and slammed to a halt at the base of a dune, skidding on its two side tires before dropping heavily down on all fours again, shocks bouncing. 

Troy immediately spun the wheel, tires shrieking as he veered toward the sandtraps, off the asphalt and into the mowed grass. Dragging to a hard stop, jerking him forward, he fought with the seatbelt, wrenching the E-brake and throwing the door open. He sprinted onto the bank in the cool air, attempting to keep his footing in the loose sand, instinctively scanning the car for smoke.

“Nacho!” He hollered, voice breaking. “Are ya’ _hurt_? Can ya’ _hear me?” _

His door swung open as the car quieted, boot finding the sand. Nacho untangled himself from the harness, hands fumbling at his helmet, doubling over and grasping the car’s roof for balance just as Troy reached him. 

“I’m OK—I’m OK,” he repeated a few times breathlessly, yanking his helmet off and dropping it in the sand, dazed and shaky on his feet. 

“Slow down, take it easy,” Troy urged, steadying him and angling him into the light. “Lemme’ see—You hit your head? Are you_ dizzy_?” 

“No—I’m fine,” he grunted, wincing and reaching up to grip his neck, hissing and rolling a sore shoulder. “I couldn’t _stop_—I press the brake an’ just,” he gestured, shaking his head, wide-eyed and rattled. “_Nothing, _it makes this nasty_ clanky_ sound and just, _boom.” _

“Yeah, no shit.” Troy exhaled, letting him go and clutching his chest, pressing his back to the car, breath burning in his throat. “Scared the _livin’ fuckin’ piss _outta’ me man, _Jesus Christ— _Sam _told_ ya’ ‘bout the _fuckin’ brakes, man! _He fuckin’ _said!” _He leaned over on his knees to catch his breath, attempting to slow his heart and quiet the ringing in his ears. 

_Calm down. _

Feeling the wind, much stronger by the shore, he glanced up at him again—spotlight overhead clouded in swarming moths, blinding in the eerie silence, fireflies methodically blinking. “..._Fuck_, man!” 

“Mira _mi carro_, vato,” Nacho groaned, peering, _crushed_, at the _Bootlegger_ half-sunk in the sand. “..._Fuck_ is right.” 

“Be glad ya’ ain’t at the _bottom of the fuckin’ Lake_,” Troy breathed in response, squeezing his eyes shut. “..._What now_?” 

“I, erm—” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, sniffing. “..._No sé. _I think I’m..._out_, for sure.” 

Troy sighed, hanging his head, noticing the flashing hazard lights of an emergency vehicle approaching down the track from the corner of his eye, flatbed tow truck behind it. “...Ah, _fuck_. _Great._” 

____ 

“That’s it,” The Race Director shook his head, tearing off a yellow slip of carbon paper and handing it to Nacho. The crew of technicians packed up their tools, Samson standing with his hand on his hip, phone to his ear, the medic returning to the office after another breathalyzer test and basic check-up. “Sorry, kiddo. _Really_, I am. But, you failed inspection. I’m gonna’ need you to sign this waiver.” 

Holding out the clipboard to him, Nacho sighed and took the pen, dangling from the edge by a string, signing his name with gloomy swiftness. The Director nodded at him, sympathetic, tapping the pen to the board, before turning to Troy. “You #76—uh, _Johnson?_” 

Troy lifted his head, leaning against his _Vegas_ with crossed arms, puffing on his cigarette. “That’s me.”

_I guess. _

“You’re the de facto winner of the match. Ya’ plannin’ to race?” 

_He didn’t want to, _only now starting to feel his nerves ease, but Nacho’s rather _vacant_ presence forced his reconsideration. 

“...Yeah,” he found himself answering, quietly. “Yeah, I’m still in.” 

“OK, five minutes.” He held up a splayed hand, before turning back toward the office building, clipboard under his arm. Troy watched him leave, _bitter,_ Samson plugging his other ear to hear better, nodding through goodbyes and hanging up. 

“That was my assistant,” he informed, thumbs cycling the keys in a text. “He’ll be over in a couple’a minutes to tow ‘er back to my shop. I had a feeling we’d run into this, I just didn’t think it’d happen so quick. I’m so _sorry_, kid, I can’t tell ya’ enough.” He apologized again, worry on his brow. “I could’a got you killed.” 

“No, is OK,_” _Nacho murmured, voice low. “Shit happens; old car breaks, is a _bummer_, but— it wasn’t your fault.” 

_‘Bummer’ wasn’t the half of it. _

Troy stood upright as the announcements played, dropping his smoke to the ground and stepping it out. 

_“We welcome you to the last match of the NSC Class championship, our semi-finals ending with #76 Vegas winning, once again, by disqualification! But, will that luck last?” _Troy shook his head as he pulled his helmet back on, threading the strap through the buckle for a final time tonight, opening his door with a creak. _“#76’s opponent is none other than our champion, #104 Gunslinger, having bested El Caballero by a half-second margin. Without further delay, and for the grand prize of ten thousand dollars, both drivers please report to the staging lanes!” _

Nacho approached the car, Troy sitting down and buckling his belt, zipping his jacket up to his neck—_summoning the necessary optimism. _

“You don’t have to go,” Nacho insisted, Troy arching a brow and looking up at him—_not what he expected. _“All that was kind of a_ buzz-kill. _You wanna’ get outta’ here?” 

“Nah, knock it off.” He dismissed, _aggravated_, gripping the door and shutting it as he put the keys in the ignition. “Call it for _shits and giggles_. I gotta’ show up to even _lose_, a’ite? Just for makin’ it to the finals we get paid—payback for last time. Your win covered my ER trip; I would’a been rolled out into the parking lot after surgery without it. Besides, he probably _bought_ his fuckin’ way in, so no way I’m rollin’ over now—not after that.” 

“_Pues…”_ He shrugged, “...I still had _a lotta’ fun_, ¿sabes?” 

Troy took a deep breath, blinking, eyes flicking meaninglessly between the gate and trees. “..._Yeah._ That’s good.” 

Nodding, Nacho averted his gaze, pocketing his hands as he shuffled back a few steps from the car. “_Buena suerte_, güerito.” 

He clenched his jaw, turning the key. 

_No drug labs to burn, but—_

The engine revved and he shifted it into gear, Samson and Nacho watching him drive toward the lanes.

_Some LC douchebag will have to do. _

He steered through the underpass, the gate parting as staff ushered him through—the final match dragging every person that could _still stand _to the chain link fences surrounding the lanes, ‘_full capacity’ being an understatement. _

He scanned the blacktop, searching for his opponent as the PA system enthusiastically rattled off riling _fightin’ words _to further arouse the crowd. Blocking it out, he cranked the window up—dampening the screaming and leaving him with just the rumble of his engine, and his own steady breathing within the helmet. An outstretched hand prompted his stop, and braking, he followed the staff member’s gaze as it settled behind his car. 

Consulting the rearview mirror, he saw his opponent sitting there behind him, _right up on his ass. _

Like some_ vintage boogeyman,_ the imposing candy-red _Gunslinger _idled_,_ hood dotted in droplets as the staff sprayed down the waterboxes, glistening in the overhead spotlights, deeply tinted windshield reflecting the _Vegas’ _taillights. Only the driver’s hands could be seen on the wheel, fingers donned in gaudy _rings. _

Narrowing his eyes, he studied the poor reflection, blotted out in blinding headlights, but the coin toss results sent a staff member waving in front of him again. 

He scoffed, brows knitting as the _Gunslinger _revved, pulling around him into the right lane—_what a surprise. _

Turning the wheel, he followed the dividers into the leftmost lane, coming up to the waterbox. Both of them stationed, _and staff delaying for dramatic effect,_ they floored the gas at the swipe of an arm. Tires spinning, both cars roared into the night, the _Vegas_ singing, while the _Gunslinger_ growled, chugging fuel, tires spewing smoke over the track. 

Jerking forward, Troy straightened the wheel, triggering the first laser, reversing—beginning the slow roll back into place following the staff’s cues. The _Gunslinger _wasn’t done, however, still burning out and clouding the entire track and sheds, much to the explosive _adoration_ of the crowd. With an ear-piercing shriek, he let off the throttle, car thrusting ahead. Troy didn’t bother to look as the _Gunslinger_ still tapped the gas, reaching up to close his visor instead, keeping his attention forward and on the Tree. He gripped the wheel, waiting for the signal to roll ahead through the second laser. 

When it was given, he let off the brake—_but his opponent did not_. 

Braking again, his car jolted to a sudden halt just shy of the mark, and he _waited—_attention darting to the staff as they laughed and backed up, the entire track’s thrilled _screaming_ reaching a higher volume. Confused, he glanced to the right lane, the _Gunslinger_ simply rumbling in _wait. _

“...Oh,_ I get it_.” Troy muttered under his breath, irritated, glancing at his heat gauge. 

_It was now a battle of endurance. _

Sitting there, idling, _on a particularly warm evening,_ the needle was steadily climbing. Chewing his lip, he glanced at the _Gunslinger _again as it sat unmoving, the driver’s arm clearly propped in the window, _starting to make his blood boil a little hotter than the engine. _Seconds bled into a minute, _a minute into two, _and despite the urging from the staff, the _crowd_ demanded the duel continue—Troy feeling the sweat beading at his temples as he kept a close eye on the gauge. 

“..._A’ite motherfucker_,” he hissed, eventually, gripping the shifter.“_We’ll play games._” 

He awaited the _Gunslinger’s _revving, the bold driver pumping the gas in several displays of _noise,_ inching ever forward before retreating, repeating the dance over and over, testing his nerves. It forced the blonde to chuckle dryly, _bemused,_ as he watched the tires roll back slightly. At their furthest point, Troy kept his arms steady and unmoving, feigning anxiousnessin his posture_, _before _jerking the wheel_—the sudden tilt of histires close enough to _trigger the second laser._

“_Ha!_” He belted, yanking the wheel back as the _Gunslinger_ scrambled to pull up, the ambers firing down, Troy’s foot already stomping the gas by the time it hit green. He launched from the starting line, engine singing, the _Gunslinger_ barreling after him with a thunderous boom—_but a poor start— _clearing the 60ft marker at near top-speed. The flags billowed as they shot by, Troy shifting, barely breathing, glancing at his opponent through the window as he climbed nearer and nearer, bumpers aligning, before a sudden _awful sound_ filled the air. 

Thick white smoke spewed out behind them, and he sucked in a breath, glancing to the mirrors as he shifted again, well over 100mph, _either panic or adrenaline _squeezing his heart. A sickening _popping_ followed, and the _Gunslinger _slowed, suddenly overtaken in a miasma of white smoke spitting from its exhaust, the _Vegas _soaring by as Troy erupted into _victorious laughter. _

“_Yes!_” He shouted, glancing at the mirrors again while the _Gunslinger _slowed to a_ pathetic pace_, just as he cleared the finish line. Laughing again, he toed the brake, his loyal _Vegas_ decelerating, engine humming lower as he downshifted. Pounding the wheel with his palm, he released the held breath, a wave of _satisfaction _washing over him. 

_“_Burned down by_ your own fuckin’ game_, asshole!” He yelled at nothing, “Buy your way outta’ _that_!” 

He watched as the car was motionless, now, in the center of the track, another fit of chuckling leaving him. 

Driving around the turnout and retrieving his ticket, he started down the outermost lane back to the pits. As he approached, excitement and disjointed commands from the staff directed him instead to the lanes again, a flood of people waiting, the _Gunslinger_ nowhere to be found. 

Engine quieting, Troy opened his door, stepping out to lights and deafening cheering, squinting through spotlights and chrome confetti sparkling and fluttering in the night air, heart still pounding with adrenaline. Reaching for the strap of his helmet beneath his chin, his fingers pulled it free of the steel ring and lifted it away, just as he spotted Nacho dodging through the crowd and vaulting over the concrete divider, raven hair whipping at his face, sprinting across slick blacktop toward him—

“¡Lo has hecho!” He exclaimed with the_ brightest and broadest of smiles,_ “¡Eso fue increíble!” 

Troy smiled a little, opening an arm, expectant of an incoming hug—but Nacho collided with him before he could react, sending him staggering from impact, throwing his arms around him and grabbing him up so tightly and with such vigor that Troy felt his heels leave the asphalt.

“Hey—a’ite, easy!” He choked over a startled gasp, nearby spectators laughing as they watched the shorter man effortlessly turn several steps with him in tow before setting him down again, squeezing—much to Troy’s heaving grunt. 

“This’s huge, cuate!” He yelled over the noise into his shirt, stepping back and gripping his arms, beaming up at him. “He always wins,_ siempre_—always _pulls that shit_, an’ you kicked his ass! I saw you anticipate green, you were amazing!” He squeezed his fingers with every word, Troy unable to resist his own sneaking smile as he caught his breath. “I can’t believe—! No, _no I knew it_, I hoped for this—_dios_, this—this,” Nacho’s words broke away as he stumbled through them—_too excited, even for the polyglot_—before giving up and enthusiastically tackling him again. Troy held his breath and_ braced himself _this time with puffed cheeks, patting his back a few times, Samson snickering from the fence. 

When Nacho pulled away, allowing him to_ breathe again_, he met his sincere, elated eyes, _reliably capturing every ounce of light_, his own softening in a rare twinge of genuine contentment. His chest stirred where the pressure abated—the sudden, tight embrace and its retraction leaving a _rip current of emptiness_ to battle the novel high that lingered. 

_He was seconds from death, smelling like the quayside after a twelve-hour shift. With that gun to his face, he would’ve been another statistic—a nameless loss nobody missed or mourned. How long was he invisible, corporeal only when people saw the clothes, smelled the beer, or heard the broken English? Or was it his willingness to turn his hands into the battered, calloused tools holding his arms so considerately now, that awarded him the privilege to sleep on a fucking park bench? _

A burning knot welled in his throat—a sleepy_ terror_ for the heaviness in his ribs, for what he felt himself craving, protectively, with the fiercest of aches beneath an increasingly obvious heartbeat, drumming away in his ears. 

_Don’t let him go. _

As quickly as it overcame him, he jerked away, awkwardly, but not so blatant Nacho would notice in the commotion. Swallowing through hitching breaths, he sniffed and swiped a hand under his nose reflexively, covering his mouth and abruptly clearing his throat. His eyes stung and his palms pricked with heat, hovering aimlessly at his sides, _horribly confused. _

“¡Felicitaciones!” Nacho smiled again, turning back to him. “_You needed this_—to lighten’ up _un poquito_, this is what Iwanted to see!” 

Blinking through the burning, he tried to formulate a coherent sentence, clearing his throat again. 

“I...uh, _thanks,_ man, it wasn’t a big deal.” He managed, voice softer and breaking, Nacho lifting his brows, incredulous. “But...it uh...it should’a been _you_, Nacho. You’re the one that deserves to be standin’ here.” A sincere, but sad smile gently tugged at his lips—_finding trouble speaking. _“..._Not me_.” 

The blinding flash of a camera interrupted his train of thought, forcing his eyes to flick upward—alarmed, clenching his jaw closed as he angled himself in front of Nacho. Turning, quickly, he kept his back to the avid photographers, blocking his path and grabbing his confused friend by the shoulder, commanding hastily:

“Put ya’ helmet on and get ta’ your car—,” he pointed, “get outta’ here, I’ll meet ya’ outside. We don’t want your face on the news.” Nacho’s lips parted to speak, but Troy interrupted, urgent. “Hurry up! ¡Vamanos! Go!” 

Nacho nodded, telling him something he didn’t catch—_or maybe didn’t understand_— before hurrying back to the fence and parting the crowd. Troy remained, straightening his back, watching him go while everything else melded into cynical mediocrity. 

The quarter-hour to follow was the numb acceptance of his prize money and half-hearted handshakes, eventually freed to return to his car after a thousand pictures he’d probably regret. 

When he finally shut the door again, sinking down into his seat, his stinging eyes fixated on the Lake ahead, people blurring as they staggered by. Ten thousand dollars rested in a brown folded envelope on the passenger seat, far lighter than he would’ve expected. He bounced his foot, confined to the silence of the interior, wanting a cigarette but too nauseated to reach for one. A breeze away from chilled, a fine film of sweat on his bare arms generated goosebumps, forcing the fine hairs at the nape of his neck to raise. 

_You’re certifiable. _

Back in the pits, Troy turned through the gate and searched for Nacho and Samson, finding them both overlooking the tow truck loading Nacho’s car up onto the flatbed. All of the attendants had left for the grandstand for the first match of the tuners races, leaving the pits relatively quiet save for the few old men _licking their wounds._ Troy drove up to their space, angling the car in the main thru-way, leaning out the window as the two of them approached. 

“Here,” The blonde said as he held out a wad of crisp, folded bills to Samson. “For babysittin’ our shit all night.”

“You serious—?” 

“We split it three ways; that’s the rules.” 

He smiled and tucked it into his pocket, glancing at Nacho. “You’re gonna’ have to ride with him, I gotta’ get this back pronto.” 

“We going, then?” Nacho asked, leaning off the truck, Troy nodding. 

“We don’t need the press up our ass,” he gestured to the crowd. “Sucks but, I think we gotta’ bail outta’ here.” 

“_Yeah_, uh,” Samson interjected casually, scratching the back of his head, dense curls caught in the wind. “_About that_—” 

Troy raised an eyebrow, just as loud screaming, melded with laughter and outrage, washed over the grandstands. Not sounding _quite right, _Troy leaned out his window further to look over the gate—a far more aggressive trail of smoke jetting into the sky, erupting into a bright light so blinding it outshone the rigs, a strange acrid smell carried on the breeze. 

His eyes widened, _horrified, _snapping to Samson— who rolled his lips, watching, the screams growing in panic and chaos. Nacho’s jaw went slack, but a grin flashed the gaps in his teeth when he heard the PA system call for the _fire squad._

“_What the fuck_, Sam!” Troy hissed, the mechanic shrugging. 

“I told ya’ any idiot can jam a potato in a tailpipe,” he recalled as he turned for the tow truck, his assistant smirking from the driver’s seat. “Mine just-so happened to be stuffed with_ thermite_, but,_ details_.” Turning, he opened the door and climbed up into the truck, slamming the door behind him. “I’ll catch y’all later; come by tomorrow to pick ‘er up! I got some shit to handle.” 

Troy watched as the flatbed angled into the main road skillfully, before driving off, the _Bootlegger_ wobbling, _pouting like a_ _kid in time-out_, still trailing sand. Sighing, he raised his head when his passenger door opened, Nacho moving the envelope onto the center console and sitting down, situating his helmet in his lap. 

“You hungry?” He offered as he shut the door, “Is 10:00, I know a place open. A _bar_, but they’ve great food.” 

Troy lowered his eyes, shifting, palm spinning the wheel methodically. 

“…_Sure_, I guess.” He murmured, avoiding _looking at him,_ lest he_ look for too long_. “...I could really use a drink.” 

“It’s in the barrio; just go back to the normal way, I show you from the bridge.” 

Nodding, absently, he drove to the track’s gate, through the dark fields and woods speckled in fireflies. As Stilwater slept, and Nacho talked, buoyant and sincere, he listened quietly to his stories—_the retching in his conscience pacified by his contagious, lively energy. _

They soon crossed the bridge, wheels thumping, Lake spanning beneath, _clutching the wheel just a little bit tighter,_ until it was left behind him. Nacho’s raspy voice faded back into focus, as he pointed through the windshield to an adobe building nestled into a corner, Troy following his directions that took them to the end of the street. 

He swallowed, parking, urging himself along, but was somehow able to muster a smile as Nacho talked and held the door. 

_—”So...this is it?” — _

_A cold sweat gripped him, breath hitched in his throat, wind caught in his clothes, frozen fingers locked around the steel. He kept his feet planted, tips of his socks an inch shy of the concrete’s edge, cotton frayed and dirty from a night of hopeless, frigid wandering before finding a solution. _

_That smooth voice came again, infuriatingly pointed in how it demanded he listen. “End of the line?” _

_“Get the fuck away from me,” he choked, sharp, biting— voice quivering more than he’d like to admit. “Fuck off, old man—!” _

_“You know what a fall like that’ll do?” _

_“Ah, no—” he barked back, a wry bitter laugh breaking free from his chest, eyes glossy. “What the fuck was I thinkin’, huh? I’m just up here ta’ get some fuckin’ fresh air—” Increasingly agitated, he yelled, voice crackling. “It’s a nice fuckin’ view man, y’know!”_

_“Easy, son, take it easy,” he calmed, sternly. “...Alright? We just talkin’.” _

_Focusing on the searing brown eyes now turned his way, red from spent tears and exhaustion, he pocketed his hands. “...Got some fight in you, at least.” _

_“Fight in me—fight in me, the fuck’s that supposed to mean—fuckin’ save it, who the fuck are you?” He snapped, gulping down a wave of nausea, shivering and weak at the knees. “J-just leave me the fuck alone—mind your own goddamn business. Everybody’s real good at that. Nobody gives a fuck about nothin’, bunch’a cruel, heartless motherfuckers—all ‘em down there, look at ‘em,” he spit feriociously over the edge, hands trembling as his shoulders stooped tensely, shoulder blades prominent. “Fuckin’ revolting. Like it’s all a big fuckin’ show.” _

_“...You know they gonna’ come up here soon,” he told him, glancing across the water, a caravan of flashing red and blue lights drawing nearer. “Once that happens, there’s no comin’ back from it, you understand that? You’re goin’ away for good, and they don’t play nice here.” _

_“Yeah.” A shaky breath left parted teeth, before he closed his mouth again, exhaling through his nose instead. “So.” _

_“Why all this?” He asked, carefully taking a step forward across the bridge grates, approaching the railing, woolen trench coat tossing in the heavy gale. “...There’s easier ways.” _

_“I tried that,” he spat, shaking. “It’s been a long night, and I had enough, a’ite? Everythin’— everythin’ fuckin’ hurts, day and night OK, I c-can’t do it anymore. I—I do what everybody says, do what I’m told, do the right thing and get fucked over and over again. People—kids, get hurt, and I’m the one doin’ it. Me. And I can’t do it anymore. Now—now I’m fuckin’ sick, my life’s over at fuckin’ twenty-six man, and—” he sniffed, squeezing his eyes shut, opening them again with a sharp breath. “I don’t know why the fuck I’m talkin’ ‘bout this—what’s the fuckin’ point goin’ through this shit if, I...I’m done. I’m fuckin’ done.” _

_“...So you fucked up, nothin’ can fix that.” He murmured as he leaned on the railing, crossing his draped arms over it. “You think you’re meant for something. Then you looked around, at all the injustices dealt out in spades, and thought… 'enough.’” He extended his hands to the dark, open air, before folding them again. “Maybe wanted to change that. Do something about it.” _

_Swallowing, he halfway ignored him, but glanced at him all the same, drowning out the sound of an EMT yelling through a bullhorn somewhere down in Mission Beach’s wharf. “You didn’t get none of it,” he continued. “Not respect, not dignity, not change. In fact, you got nothin’ but hell, I believe it. That’s why you’re here now; you don’t think you deserved that. Thing is, there’s a lot of people who never get told they’re destined for anything but this, right here. Not by any amount, from the day they’re born. And, you know what’s done about it?” He raised dark brows from beneath the brim of his cap. “I’ll give you a hint: it ain’t this.” _

_ He glanced at him again, jaw clenching, glimpsing the reflectant cross that dangled at his chest—forcing a scoff wrought with bitterness. “...So, I’m a fuckin’ bitch, ‘zat it? Stuck around to tell me that? Ah, yeah, OK—g’head and have your laugh at the piece’a white trash with problems, same as all of them.” He nodded to the crowd, “I heard it all before, man, a fuckin’ million times—and y’know what? You’re right; I can’t handle it. So, why not just leave me the fuck alone, huh? One less problem in the world.” His voice cracked, before turning belligerent and mocking. “Get the fuck off me—you don’t fuckin’ know me.” _

_“Oh, I know who you are, and I know what you did.” His voice took on a graver pitch, but his detached intonation chilled him more than the night air ever could. “You want justice? You think you know what’s right?” He peered at him, unwavering, Brighton’s lights casting a rimlight around his silhouette. “Would you kill to prove it? Die for it, instead of dyin’ right here, for nothing?” _

_“No,” he shook his head, tears welling in his eyes again, halfway sinking to his knees at the edge, burning in the cold. “I’m sick of it, I can’t—.” _

_“Once you’re down this road, there ain’t no coming back from it. You knew that the first time you pulled that trigger. There’s a lot of things we can’t control, son. But, there’s plenty that we can, if you’re willing to make some tough choices.” _

_“No,” he shook his head again. “I’m done.” _

_“I want to get the ones responsible—want to make them pay. For this. For all of it. I think it’s time Stilwater learned a hard lesson. But, I can’t do it alone.” He watched the younger man, and his chest rising and falling with an almost hysterical pace. “...That crazy shit you pulled? That’s what it’s gonna’ take. I need someone on the inside, but we have to act quick. I need your help.” _

_“Me—?” He hissed, “What is this—how do you know all this? You after me?” _

_“No,” He replied, voice low, powerful in its diction. “I’ve just been around the block one too many times, and I’m gettin’ real tired.” _

_The blonde turned his head, wind whipping at his cropped, shaggy hair and disheveled face, little more than skin and bone beneath his oversized T-shirt and slack sweatpants. His lids fluttered, pale lips forming a line as his sleepless, pained eyes allowed a flooded tear or two to spill down an angled cheek, reddened nostrils flaring before he spoke. _

_“...Who’re you then, huh?” He nodded at him, quieter. _

_“Name’s Julius Little,” he replied, leaning on his arm. “Maybe you heard of me. Although, I’m not much of a household name these days.” _

_Breathing stabilizing, he swallowed over the lump in his throat. _

_“...And me?” He asked again, a harsh shiver rattling his teeth. “...Whattaya’ want from me?” _

_“Easy,” Julius answered, moving away from the railing, breath clouding in the frigid air. “Since you put Victor in the ICU, I’m presented with a rare opportunity.” He lifted his eyes, quiet, before extending an open palm to him, beckoning he step away. “I want you to help me kill Alejandro Lopez.”_


	19. A Two-Letter Word

_ —“...Warm, clear night, goin’ fast? Makes you wannu’ just keep going. Se siente bien estar vivo, even though tomorrow’s could be the end, y… maybe that make it better.” — _

_ —“Pero, yo creo...I leave a little bit too much’a me in...yesterday, sometimes. ¿Sabes? Nights like this one come, an’ I wanna’ go run. Not to go nowhere, just to do… digo, I can only be myself. I think, we give that up too much. We have to protect who we are. Fight for it. Not let it be took from us.”— _

_ —”¿Es lo mismo para ti? You know what I mean?”— _

His eyes opened to darkness, fixated on a cracked ceiling, the headlights of a passerby car shining through the blinds, split by fractured glass and rapidly disintegrating the memory. The muffler was about ready to _ fall off _, and it blared down the street, clanking over the concrete. The sudden racket ebbed away, leaving his heart racing, but the walls of his cramped upstairs bedroom managed to dull the urgency. 

Calming, steadying his breathing, his eyes drifted closed again to the groaning of water pipes behind his head. He rolled over, slipping an arm beneath the cotton pillowcase, working his jaw and retreating back into the recesses of sleep. But the sudden, sinking _ wrongness _ in his stomach panged, jolting him up, _ gagging and coughing—   
_

He dropped to his knees at the toilet downstairs, _ barely making it _— one hand raked back through sweaty hair, the other pressed to the cold tile. Every visceral lurch sent a wave of sharp pain through tender muscles and sore elbows, caught in a coughing fit, something of an exhausted whimper breaking free as he vomited several times over. 

Spitting, he slumped back onto his heels, catching his breath.

_ Guess I’m up. _

He finally raised an arm to flush, pressing the back of his head to the wall. The fluorescent gleam made his head hurt, and closing his eyes to it, he cupped a hand over the scabbed wound at his hip. After a moment, he sniffed, rolling his head to the other side and dragging himself to his feet, hunching over the crowded sink. Brushing his teeth, he watched the blood-tinged foam swirling down the drain with morbid apathy. 

Wandering back into his kitchen, floor creaking, he gulped the _ pink stuff _and re-capped the bottle, leaving it on the counter. The microwave glowed thin numbers from a corner— 

_ 2:14 A.M. _

Troy wiped his mouth on his arm, _ annoyed _ — bare feet planted on cold linoleum needing swept, the headlights of another passing car dragging his bent shadow across the cramped kitchen wall. He clicked on the television, flickering in the quiet living room. Set to the last channel, it played reruns of classic horror, doing _ something—but he wasn’t sure what— _to soothe the lonely weight of the ticking clock. He approached his couch again and paused to watch, mindless, but his tired eyes fell to the coffee table and his reflection in the glass. A Spanish phrasebook and a tube of burn cream sat beside the time slip from his winning race nine days ago, crinkled from his pocket, but smoothed by his fingers. 

_ It sat where the missing persons files should be. _

He plucked his nearly-empty pack of cigarettes from the clutter, _ not even bothering with that lighter, _ taking one in his lips and consulting the stove instead, turning the dial and watching the coil redden. Lighting it, he puffed, waving the smoke away before the smoke detector could catch it—summoning strength to his fingertips to crack the window over the sink. The leaves outside rustled, predicting another gusty summer-night—the moon peeking out from behind half-finished scaffolding and shining over dark water. Leaning, ducking beneath the cabinet and the door that never shut right, the first smoke for the day— _ night? — _ burned his throat and tasted like shit, but the cool, damp air from the beach on his feverish face brought some relief. He rubbed his forehead as he watched the clouds skim over it in the stormy wind, raking his nails across his eyebrow, _ caught in the spiral. _

_ “¿Qué es esto?” _

_ “Your share, man.” _

_Flipping the folded money over in his hand, Nacho thumbed through the bills, holding it low in his lap beneath the bar counter while Troy downed another shot of Sotol to the mellow tune he couldn’t understand. _

_“This’s $6,600 here.” _

_“Yup.” He croaked, swallowing and turning the square glass in his fingers. _

_“One third’s no this much.“_

_“Yup again.” Cocking his head, he set it down. “I’m shit at math, but...” _

_Nacho searched his face for elaboration, but Troy’s shoulders only slumped as he flicked ashes into the ashtray, studying the glazed design of a cactus at the bottom of the chipped ceramic. _

_“...Why?”_

_“‘Cause I know ya’ need it,” he replied, succinctly. “That’s why ya’ were at the race.” _

_Nacho clicked his tongue, readjusting on the stool. “I was at the race ‘cuz I want to race.” He corrected, but lifted studded brows. “...Pero, sí—el dinero no hace daño.” _

_“Uh-huh.” _

_“...Espere,” He insisted, hushed. “You won—we split even, that’s what we agree; you can’t get nothing—” _

_“Just keep it, man; I don’t need it. Get on your feet, do what ya’ gotta’.” _

_“You says that last time.” _

_ “Well, fine—get the fuck outta’ Stilwater, then.” Troy replied, agitated. “Could hop a plane right now. Skip town.” _

_He snorted, “An’ go where?” _

_“Anywhere but here.” _

_Smirking, he teased, “You wan’ me gone that bad?” _

_Saying nothing, Troy continued to stare at that little cactus with the sunglasses, only moving to snuff out his cigarette a moment later. _

_ A few reassuring pats to his shoulder broke his daze, prompting his head to raise, almost reproachful. “...Tonight’s on me, then.” Nacho insisted, tugging free a bill, setting it on the counter. “I know you no like me makin’ a big deal outta’ things, pero…” _

_ A twinge of disgust tugged at his lips, “Nach—”  
  
_ _ “I don’t like it either.” He clarified, and Troy blinked, quieting. “...Is strange thing, that just become...compulsive, ‘cuz everybody want that. Give me something, ‘oh, thank you,’” he nodded with a tilted head, closing his eyes and whispering, “muchas gracias, senior. I will repay; you will no regret.’” There was a flicker in his eyes, but it settled into something distant. _

_  
Expectant of his long pauses by now, Troy suggested in a low, somewhat flat voice, “...Not that way back home, I take it.”_

_Shaking his head softly, Nacho toyed with the edge of his water-spotted napkin. “...Kórima.” He murmured, unhurried and calm. “...What I have, all should have. If I can make it fine with a little, then…I give the rest.” _

_Troy’s brows furrowed, and he found himself turning to look at him, probably for the first time in an hour. His own gaze wavered, softening and settling on black eyes warmed by a memory, before Nacho noticed his silence. _

_“...Ay, I talk too much.” He brushed the subject aside, tucking the money into his pocket and smiling again—easier and buoyant. “...I’m happy that between us, thanks no needs to be said.” _

  
That night crept into every pause, every lapse in focus, every reflection on what step to take next in this _ shit-show— _ even as he laid in bed several nights since, staring at that crack in the ceiling until the sun rose.  
Another beam of headlights hit the water, streaking over the beach and cutting off as it passed the house. The driver throttled the gas, the muffler straining as the engine revved, tires screeching. The obnoxious display echoed while Mission Beach slept— _ or tried to _ . Raising an eyebrow, Troy turned, the brief shatter of glass subdued by the walls and water, distant and subtle. It hung in the air, silence following, prompting he douse his cigarette beneath the faucet and lean to peer through the screen, _ officially irritated _. 

The skidding rubber carried over the streets, growing louder, the sudden squeal of the brakes somewhere _ close, _just beyond his front porch. Troy listened, gaze stern, before the snapping of steel brought his breath to hitch— 

Two semi-automatics open-fired, dissonant and deafening, battling as glass shattered and brick chipped. He heard his front window burst, bullets spraying the living room walls, diving to the kitchen floor. Covering his head, he prostrated himself across the linoleum, curling, bullets whistling overhead as one magazine emptied, the pause in fire only for a reload. With a quick breath, he crawled on his elbows to brace himself against the inner wall, listening as his television tipped, turning his attention around the baseboard. Countless smoking holes splattered the walls, but his gun waited upstairs on his bedside table—_ too risky. _

He leaned up for the drawer beneath the counter, flinching with every round, jerking it open. Fumbling, he felt the scratched carbon steel and ridged handle, pulling free his standard-issue pistol beneath a pile of accumulated junk mail. Palming in the magazine, yanking the slide, he pressed his back to the lower cabinet and checked it, before letting it snap back into place. Waiting for another break in fire, he held the gun close as they kicked at the front door, hinges straining, wood bowing beneath the deadbolt and rattling chain. 

Inhaling, he hurried for the window over the sink, forcing it up further, using the butt of the gun to knock the screen out. The rusted staples came loose, screen toppling out the side, Troy scrambling up onto his counter. He got one leg through, hooking the second over, wincing at the sharp edges catching on his clothes before twisting to ease himself out. The drop was more than expected, bare feet meeting concrete and his ankles stinging—but he jolted up, back to the dirty green siding, chest heaving. 

He heard the front door slam open, screws thrown across the wood floor as they stormed his house. Coughing, he covered his mouth in the crook of his elbow, screams crying out behind him from another house rapidly overtaken in white, papery smoke. Eyes widening, the neighbor’s home, green to match his, _ burned— _smoke snaking from the broken front window.

  
“ _ Fuck…! _” He muttered through clenched teeth, bouncing in place, the sudden blaring horn from the getaway car snapping his attention away. 

Edging around the house, he thumbed the hammer, avoiding errant rocks and broken glass as he spotted the vehicle parked out front, engine rumbling, driver waiting with a nervous, wide-eyed gaze. Ducking low, he held a breath tight—_Carnales— _ just as he heard thudding footsteps rushing up his stairs. Furniture overturned before the windows flashed in muzzle flare, intruders emptying a spray of bullets into his bed. The racket made him jump, neighbors screaming again as the popping echoed, drowned in the crackling roar of a blaze quickly swallowing the duplex.  
  


Eyes darting between the driver and the street, he chewed his lip with mere seconds to _ decide. _

Exhaling, he pressed his shoulder to the dusty gutter and took aim with steady hands, lining up the sights with the back of the crimson-clad driver’s head as he rocked anxiously behind the wheel of the convertible— 

The sudden wailing of distant sirens echoed over the bridge, startling him and breaking his focus, joined by the sudden popping of erupting gunshots scattered further out in the neighborhood, sounding like a war-zone. Troy ducked reflexively with every cracking pop, heart pounding, trying to determine where it was all coming from—but they grew too numerous to pinpoint. 

_ The Row’s under attack— _

Lowering his gun, he dipped back behind the wall, a convoy of emergency vehicles and police fast approaching over the river but faltering at the raised bridge, several more distant shots carrying in the streets from all corners. The getaway driver honked again, and with heavy footsteps the assailants stomped down his stairs, front door sent banging off the siding again as they sprinted for the car. 

Keeping still, Troy noted a rapid exchange of Spanish, the driver flooring the gas and dragging the P.O.S. down the street with squealing tires. Allowing a breath, Troy spun on his heel at the screaming of his neighbors, gathered in the rundown playground at the edge of the parking lot and clinging to whatever belongings they could grab. Ashes and paper scattered as he stuffed the gun in the waistband of his pajama pants, hastily hiding it beneath his shirt and calling out to them as he ran, “_Hey!_ Anybody hurt?”   
  


His response was five disjointed voices yelling and sobbing at once, leaving him to read their expressions as he blocked out the cacophony. Their shaking hands and how they swallowed over lumps in their throats answered his question: 

_  
Somebody got shot. _

  
“Anybody still inside?” He asked, sternly, raising his voice over them. They all jerked and flinched at the popping, another exchange of gunfire ringing out alongside a roaring engine not far away. Praying they were Saints, he repeated himself, “Uh—inside! _ Nadie _ , um, _ shit— ¿ _ nadie q-quedó en la casa?” Managing to get a nod from a middle-aged woman, clutching her stomach and doubled over from grief and smoke inhalation, he pressed, “‘Kay— _ Where _ ? _ Donde _?” 

“_ Recámara, _” she heaved, pointing to the second-floor window. “M-mija—” 

  
“OK,” he breathed with a quick nod before bolting for the house, yelling over the racket. “¡Escucha! Call 911! Stay on the line with ‘em; don’t hang up!”

It was only after he’d climbed the porch steps did the group register his _ presence, let alone his instruction, _ as he ducked across the threshold into a blanket of smoke reaching the ceiling. Lowering himself, he pulled his T-shirt collar up to his nose and over the back of his head, sidestepping shattered glass, screaming as loud and as clear as he could manage, “Anybody hear me?”   
  


Turning circles, he listened, the crackling fire originating from the kitchen of the duplex beside the living room, scorch marks flaking the wallpaper away, that familiar, tarry chemical smell evidence of a Molotov. “_ Hello? _ ¿Puedes escuchar?” He called out again, spotting the stairs almost entirely obscured by darkness and smoke, before a man’s voice broke.   
  


_ “Help _ !” It rattled, muffled, coming from upstairs. “ _ Help us _ !”   
  


“Hey—I hear you! Don’t move!” Troy yelled back, making for the stairs, gripping the banister as he skipped steps in long, frantic strides, dodging around the corner whittled by bullets. Hunched as he ran, he spotted an open door, a man’s foot extended beyond the doorway, outstretched and thumping at the floor. 

“Here! In here!”  
  
Troy ran down the hall past hanging family photos and rumpled carpet, pressing his face into his arm as his eyes stung and watered. The open bedroom door revealed a man hunched over a little girl, bloodied hands pressed to a spurting bullet wound to her shoulder.   
  


“_ Christ _ —!” Troy hissed, jumping over their legs and running to the twin bed, ripping up a faded sheet printed in cartoon characters and dragging it to the pair.   
  
“I no _ move her _ ,” the terrified father breathed, coughing. “If I took my hand, she—he lost a _ lotta’ bloods _ , I can’t—”  
  
“Nah—nah ya’ did good, it’s gonna’ be a’ite,” Troy huffed, fighting down his sudden wave of faintness at the sight, working quickly to wad the cloth and push it to the wound, looping it under the girl’s arm several times over—blotting vibrant red. He glanced at her face, color washed from her cheeks and oddly still save for her shallow breaths, slick with sweat and staring up at the ceiling with glazed, black eyes. “...She’s in shock,” Troy relayed, feeling her clammy forehead with the back of his hand, “We gotta’ get 'er outta’ here, c’mon—the whole house’s goin’ up. Help’s comin’.”   
  


_ If the ER ain’t on fucking diversion.   
  
_

“OK,” he breathed, shaken, nodding several times. 

“Keep her head lower than her feet, a’ite?” Troy told him as he hurried to scoop up her skinny legs as her father kept the wound pressed, the two of them lifting her _ on 3 _ and walking her through the doorway. They stumbled down the hall, Troy doing his best to keep her stabilized walking backwards until they reached the stairs. Sidestepping, they eased her down, Troy dipping his chin further beneath the hem of his shirt as the smoke and heat sucked the air from his lungs, seizing them in a way he’d never experienced. Coughing, shortly, he tried to speak over a strained throat and a sudden sense of suffocation, ” _ We gotta’ move! _” 

Carefully descending the stairs, they reached the living room before Troy readjusted his grip, the father keeping the girl hooked in his arms, muttering to her soothingly in a breaking voice. Troy barely opened his eyes as they ran for the front door, a bright portal engulfed in flames splattered in fiery motor oil and darkening smoke. Ducking low, they breached fresh air, and he felt the cold concrete steps beneath his feet, greeted by the frantic, sobbing screams of the mother running for them.

Trying to catch his breath, the crisp lakeside air filled his lungs and seared like ice, forcing a sharp cough that emptied his body of strength. Lowering to the ground, somehow making it to the sidewalk, Troy blinked through blurred vision, peering down at his ashy hands trembling over a wound as they worked, a neighbor plugging her ear and speaking a dozen answers to a dozen questions into her cellphone. 

“Get me somethin’, huh? Anythin’, uh, uh— you!” Troy pointed with a raised chin, “Gimme’ your jacket!” 

The stiff senior neighbor flinched as he barked “_ now! _”, and eventually shrugged out of his sleeves, movements inhibited by his inability to tear his eyes away from the child bleeding through her pajamas on the pavement. 

Troy snatched the garment away, covering her up to her chin. “Señora, por favor,” he urged the mother, choking through her sobs as she stroked her blueish face. “Por favor, necesito— _ uh _ , I need ya’ to keep her warm, _ abrigado _ , ¿comprende? She’s in shock, she’s gotta’ _ stay warm _ , a’ite? Talk to 'er! Hey—” he directed to the father, “tell ‘er,” he asked, desperate, as the sirens grew deafening. Troy glanced over his shoulder to the lights flashing between the buildings at the end of the street, blinding through a fog of smoke.  
  
“Help’s comin’ guys, a’ite? Keep pressin’ on the wound, don’t let up.” 

The father nodded, translating his message to the mother as Troy returned to the girl’s feet, elevating them, _ cold as ice, _glancing up to the woman on the phone. “Did they dispatch?” 

She was frazzled, listening to the operator, but attempting to reply to him by cupping her hand over the receiver, “On the way.”_  
  
_

“The cops are comin’ man; I don’t think any of us should stick around,” a teen from the group warned in an unsteady voice, his girlfriend huddled close.

Troy looked at him, the teen gesturing with his eyes at the gun’s handle now clearly visible from his waistband.

  
  
“You’re _ armed _ ?” The old man balked in his croaky, Midwest accent. “You’re with those thugs on 3rd Street, aren’t you— _ aren’t you? _ ” 

Troy ignored him, instead giving the teens a reassuring nod before returning his focus to the parents. “Keep talkin’ to her; it’s gonna’ be a’ite.” 

The old man’s outburst continued with incredulity, a baffled sound following. “I can’t believe it—they were here for _you, _weren’t they? You drive around in that _loud car,_ hang around the church with those punks and low-lifes! They tore this neighborhood apart! This used to be a safe place to live—raise a family! Now look,” he gestured boldly to the girl, before pointing an accusatory finger at Troy. “Don’t you guys see what’s happening, here? All this is _his fault_! He’s a _drug dealer,_ they were here for him—!”  
  
“Shut the_ fuck up, already, _huh?” Troy snapped suddenly, startling him, making the old man fidget in place with clenched fists and a stiff upper lip. “Make yourself fuckin’ _useful_ or get the fuck _outta’ here!”_  
  
Deciding to close his mouth when the others only nervously eyed him, the old man lowered his gaze as Troy glimpsed the approaching red and blue lights, a tense silence settling.   
  


_ SPD? Where’s the paramedics and fire department?   
  
_

“Did any a’ youse call 911 beforehand?” He questioned hastily, answered by several shaking heads. His heart drummed quicker, glancing back again—   
  


_ Shit!  
  
_

“Go!” Troy demanded, “Get outta’ here! Get back in your houses and lock the doors and close the blinds; don’t answer for _ nobody _ without a fuckin’ _ warrant _ signed by _ Judge Melmack, _ understand me?”  
  
“Are you _ joking?” _ The old man leaned in, “_We’re _ the _ victims, here! We _ don’t have anything to _ hide! _ ”  
  
“Call your family, parents, lawyer, _ anybody _ ; do _ not _ let ‘em in your fuckin’ house no matter _ what _ they say—and tell them retirees down the street the same thing, a’ite? Go! I’m serious!” 

The teen was nodding long before Troy finished his sentence, urging his girlfriend away, the couple sprinting down the sidewalk. The old man eventually shuffled back, aghast and distrustful, but the woman on the phone stayed put—feet planted in her glittery plastic sandals, eyes fixed on the girl and still dutifully answering questions.   
  


Troy worked the gun out of his waistband and tossed it abruptly into the patchy shrubbery of an overgrown flowerbed, the screeching sirens curdling his blood as three police sped by, sorely needed firetruck turning a corner at the end of the block to respond to another plume of smoke flooding the sky. A fourth and fifth police car came to a sudden halt in front and behind them in the middle of the lot, a convoy of ambulances blurring past the bridge. Lights flashing, casting their shadows across the blacktop, two officers emerged from the first car, their dark uniforms concealing them further.   
  


“Nobody move!” They ordered from the cover of their doors, Troy raising his hands and the group freezing. 

“A kid’s been_ shot! _” 

The officer only repeated himself, directed at the parents who were squinting into the headlights—a frantic string of Spanish leaving the mother’s lips. The father attempted to calm her as her temper flared with rolling tears, the woman on the phone stepping back and raising her hands with the phone pinched to her ear. 

“Did you _ hear me _ ?” Troy yelled again, two more doors opening, and with it, two more officers staring them down. “Call in 10-52! I think an _artery's hit_, she needs a hospital!” 

When he glanced back again, their hands flew to their belts in a clumsy flash, “Drop it!”

“Hey—_ hey _!” Troy barked, springing to his feet. 

“Back up!” The driver commanded at him, clashing with the other officer’s yelling— _ too many voices to follow.   
  
_

The woman with the phone stumbled back, terrified, it falling from her shoulder and clattering on the blacktop, the mother crying out with panicked questions as Troy quickly stepped in front, blocking their paths. “¡Vamos, atrás _ da’ _ mí!” He ushered hastily, before facing the cops again. “Listen ta’ me! This kid needs a _ hospital! _ ”   
  


Speaking into their radios, Troy caught only pieces of the static-laced scanner.   
  


_Something's wrong_ _ —!_

  
“Step away from the victim!” One cop eventually erupted, anxiety growing with every popping exchange of gunfire in the distance.  
  
“They’re the parents!” Troy argued. “They don’t speak good English!” The woman pulled the mother away, screaming and pleading in a rasping voice, but the father stayed still, eyes locked on his daughter’s face with his hands still and firm. 

“Hands on your head!”  
  
“He _ can’t! _ She’ll _ bleed out! _ ” Troy shot back, furious, a fire truck's horn smothering his words.   
  


A sudden voice rattled, all attention darting to the old man far back on the sidewalk, screaming over the sirens beneath a streetlight,_ winded and righteous _ . “He has a gun! Watch out, he has a gun!” 

Troy barely had a moment to suck in a breath to combat the dread that dropped through his stomach, the entourage of shouting deafening as four guns snapped up, moving on them in a blur of black uniforms and over-polished shoes. A sharp blow to the back of his knee knocked him to the ground and he met the asphalt, arms wrenched behind his back to a racket of barked commands and flying spit_ , _ steel tightly snapping and pinching his wrists. He glimpsed the father dragged away by two at gunpoint through a curtain of stringy hair, the mother’s frantic screams ear-piercing as their daughter, barely conscious, cried and weakly reached for them. The father was thrown down harder—a blow to the head with the butt of the gun extra incentive to _ stay down, _his muffled grunt the only noise he could summon in between hurled insults. He squirmed, calling out to his family— his wife running over to shove his assailant before being pinned to the ground herself. Foul words layered on his breath before breaking away into desperate begging, earning him one quick strike after another from a tucked elbow until his mouth bloodied. 

“He didn’t do anything! They got nothin’ _ta’ do with this!_” Troy choked out, pitch breaking, hands running up and down his legs and ankles with a knee in his back. _Tell them your badge number!_ “Get _off me, _fat fuck! I'm--!” He was struck so hard across the back of his head he saw stars, instantly nauseated, the hazy radio filling his ears. _  
__  
_Dizzy and disoriented, his consciousness ebbed and he tasted blood, hearing them continue to beat his neighbor within an inch of his life as his wife was cuffed and dragged to the car, every sickening _thump_ filling him with terror. Without thinking, he yanked his knee aside and thrashed, but his struggling froze when he suddenly felt the cold barrel of a gun dig into his side—

“_How’s it goin’_, Bradshaw?” The cop muttered overheard, Troy’s throat tensing. _He tried to see his face over his shoulder, or read his voice, but couldn’t recognize it. _“Can make this all go away,” he grunted, “Just gotta’ _ask_. That’s fair, ain’t it? After all you’ve been up to, hm? All you’ve been _gettin’ away with_? C’mon,” he goaded. “_Ask me to stop_. Tell me you’re still one of the _good guys._” 

The breath was forced from his lungs, straining beneath his weight, face tingling and skin scraped. Rage welled deep with every lingering glance at the tide beneath the bridge, just beyond the sand and smoke.

_ Where were the Good Guys that night? The same one that made him step onto that ledge?  
_ _ Where were they when every woman went missing in Stilwater?  
_ _ Where were they now? _

_  
_ Instead of forming a sentence, his lips flattened into a line— _ only one, resolute word heavy in his dark eyes.  
  
_ “_Fuck you! _” Troy spat, struck over the back of the head again, coming to when he felt the gun push into his lower spine. 

“Wonder what’ll happen to the ego when you’re shittin’ in diapers the rest of your life, huh?” The metal barrel touched the back of his neck next—”Maybe eatin’ through a _tube? _That work for you, _cop-killer?_”   
  
Locking his jaw, Troy grit his teeth and turned blurry eyes to the downed silhouette of his neighbor, the girl lying still on the asphalt with a cop knelt beside, thick smoke blanketing everything as flames engulfed the house. 

_ He didn’t even know their names. _

“_Or,” _ he continued, gun going to the back of his head, Troy squeezing his eyes shut. “I think I’ll just do the _ world a solid _.” 

A sudden shot rang out—every muscle in Troy’s body jerking and seizing stiff as a sharp sound broke free from his throat, ears ringing. Hot liquid splashed him, weight lifted from his back, another series of popping gunshots exchanging overhead as he lay tense and still. 

Realizing he was still alive, _in too much pain to be dead,_ he slowly opened his eyes, only to come face-to-face with the still damp, lifeless stare of the cop, a bullet hole emptying some of his skull onto the pavement. The strangled scream that erupted from his lips was involuntary, jerking back and rolling away, heart pounding as he forced himself to his other side. A horrible, sickening wave tugged at his stomach, straight down to his feet, blackening his vision as his heart ached in his chest. Blinking at the stars, obscured by pollution, a sudden familiar face moved into view. 

  
“_Still with us, kid?” _   
  
  
Julius tucked his gun beneath his arm, quickly crouching and pulling on Troy’s shoulder to help him sit upright. Troy could only stare at the slow-moving, purple-clad bodies around him in a cold wash of realization, four cops lying dead, doors ajar and lights flashing, radio gurgling _ 999, G.S.W. _ —all _ oddly silent to him _ . An ambulance, _ finally _ , approached—barreling down the main road toward them. Turning his head, he saw his neighbors being freed, cuffs unhooked, scrambling to the side of the girl whose little hand still held life as it raised to grip her mother’s. 

_ But, the father wasn’t moving. _

“Troy!” Julius shook him sharply, in his husky, urgent tone. “Snap out of it!” 

Blinking, confused, he met Julius’ eyes, unable to fully register who he was looking at as he was pulled up further. Julius reached for his cuffs, slapping his arm a couple times. “Step through these, we don’t have time.” Troy listened, tilting to the side, straining and pulling his knees tight to his chest as he looped his bound wrists beneath himself. Julius helped guide his feet through the chain quickly, and with a grunt Troy freed his arms. A Saint was at his side a moment later, pressing the key into the slot, missing a few times from his fevered pace, twisting until the metal clicked and slid away. Cuffs dropping, Troy shook out his wrists as Julius grabbed his arm, guiding him to his car parked on the curb. 

Bringing him to the passenger side, he opened the door and helped him in, Troy collapsing into the seat with a throbbing migraine, neck _damp_ and vision blurry, Julius returning in remarkably slow seconds with a duffle bag in tow. It was his—his revolver, phone, keys, wallet, and all his rattling pills inside, Julius stuffing it onto the floorboard before passing him a pair of sneakers. Shifting, Julius accelerated, engine of the sports car humming cleanly as he rolled up the automatic tinted windows, eyes on the roads he swiftly navigated. 

“I locked your door and posted some muscle around your block; not a soul’s gettin’ into that house,” he told him, passing the blinking traffic light that never worked. “I’d keep my head down for a bit if I were you.” 

“...Wait, wait man—” Troy interrupted, voice dry, the grates of the road rattling as they turned onto the bridge, _ dread welling at the sudden silence of black water beneath _ . “Where we goin’?””

“ER,” Julius replied shortly, nodding at the blood on his seat. “They roughed your ass up good. For that kind of beat-down, I’d say it was personal.” 

“...I ain’t gettin’ invited to any _barbecues_, if that’s what ya’ mean.” He murmured, blooming streetlights spinning. 

“He meant _ business— _ why’d he prefer the _ consequences _ over you _ breathing? _ ” 

Swallowing, Troy squeezed his eyes shut to the pain_ . _

“...I’m stickin’ to our _ deal. _ If ya’ want that, I’m gonna’ end up steppin’ on some toes. I’m dealin’ with generations of tight-knit, snake-bite church _ bullshit _ —they _ never _ let me in back then, and they sure as shit ain’t about to start now.” 

“Keep that up, and history will repeat itself. Always does.” Julius reminded, eyeing him again. “Carnales will be the least of your worries.” 

“...They shot up my _ house _ , found me again.” Troy said softly. “...Hurt that _ little kid _ , Jules… hurt those people…”

“_ Fame’s _ got a _ price. _ ” He glanced at his rearview mirror while he reached into the back seat, throwing a newspaper down on Troy’s lap. “Your face was on every doorstep Monday morning. Long hair and a beard ain’t savin’ that. Turn the page, you’ll see Angelo Lopez swallowing his pride.” He chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “...Not sure _ what the hell _ you were thinking, but it _ worked _ .” 

“_ Lopez? _ ” He repeated, confused, before his eyes widened. Grabbing the paper, he fumbled with it, flipping to the next page and squinting in the dark at the black and white image. 

_ There he was, a photo from the year before, standing with his slicked black hair and droopy, cold eyes, a beautiful brunette woman with a flower in her hair posed on the hood of the prized vintage Gunslinger.   
  
_

_ “ _ ... _ Fuck,” _ he breathed, heart racing, eyes starting to burn. “No...no, no, no, _ fuck! _ Oh God, Nacho—and Samson! I gotta’ —they were at the track with me, they might be after ‘em too! I gotta’—” 

“Easy, _ take it easy _ .” Julius calmed, glancing at him. “Sam can take care of himself, and the kid’s _ fine, _ I just got off the phone with him.” 

Nearly hyperventilating, he trembled—“This’s all _ my fault... _ This never would’a happened if—” 

“Angelo had it out for us anyway, you _ know that _ . After burnin’ down three of his labs, plus _ your mess _ — what’d you _ expect would happen _ ? You hit him where it hurt on both counts; it was only a matter of time before him and Victor showed their faces.” 

He looked at him, startled. “Wait—what? Tonight? _Here? _”  
  
“Tried to take the outskirts, a couple dozen—Metro station, underpass. _Ran_ when things got too hot. I don’t think they expected our numbers.” He slowed as he exited the bridge, turning through Brighton. “...But, they can’t run far.”  


Troy’s heart pounded, pressure aching behind his eyes, just as the bright lights of the hospital came into view.   
  


_ Let it all be a nightmare.   
  
_

After Julius dropped him off, he was seated with a towel to his head and his bag under his chair in the waiting room, watching countless gurneys rushed through an overpacked hallway, _gunshot wound after gunshot wound,_ and a seemingly endless crowd of doctors, nurses, and paramedics scrambling by. All he could think of was the _smell _of the cleaner and the drab carpet, headlines running on the television of the chaos— _“Four Officers Slain in Saints Row Turf War”, _photographs of the uniformed deceased up on the screen.  
  
Those slideshows sickened him; _if only they knew._   
  


By the time he was seen, several hours had passed and his wound crusted shut. _His hospital debts alone by now could fund a small town._ A CT scan and baseline test revealed a concussion to go with smoke inhalation and mild dehydration. After getting a couple stitches in his eyebrow, and being handed the world’s most expensive cardboard cup of ibuprofen, he dragged his IV bag to the sidewalk to double-down on the lung damage.  
  
Bumming a cigarette off a ragged intern, he sat on the sidewalk and watched the ambulances strobing, gusts of air-conditioning hitting his back from the automatic doors that never stayed shut longer than a few seconds. Flicking ashes, the night sky faded into the pink haze of dawn, something about it leaving him feeling _vulnerable and exposed._ Every cop that paced the halls sent shivers down his spine, but he knew their glazed, rookie expressions—_none of them were there for him, _and as he sat on that curb in his soot-covered pajamas and sneakers full of holes, he barely recognized _himself.  
  
_In the racket, he hadn’t noticed the engine of the muscle car in the parking lot, only looking up when he heard the slapping of tire-soled sandals on the pavement, glimpsing the patched knees of faded cargo pants and frayed, rust-colored flannel.  
  
Nacho stood there,_ strung out_, chest rising and falling as if he’d run the entire stretch of town and back again. His tousled hair, indented and crimped from a hardhat, stuck to a sweaty face, orange bandanna hanging at his neck instead. Flecks of dried blood stained his collar, the scent of motor oil and stagnant lake water in his clothes, detectable even from that distance. 

_ It infuriated him.  
_ _ He’d hoped he’d listened to him and skipped town, going so far as to avoid any contact for days.  
_ _ But he couldn’t deny the relief he felt seeing him there—safe—in the morning light. _

Troy’s response was a _ nod _ in recognition— _ the best he could come up with at the moment— _ puffing on his cigarette and exhaling slowly. 

  
“¿ _ Estás bien _?” Nacho asked, breathlessly. 

Sniffing, he nodded, taking another drag. 

“Angelo Lopez is Gunslinger Guy,” Nacho blurted with a wavering voice. “I didn’t _ know _ , guerito, I never _ know his name _ , _ I’m so sorry _—“ 

“_Nah_, man.” He mustered—rough, quiet, and a bit cold in the damp air. “I just wish I’d...uh…” His words tapered off, suspended in the air, before he rolled his lips and extinguished his cigarette on the corner of the stone. “...It don’t matter.” 

“...Julius tell me what happened,” he continued, moving to his side and lowering to sit beside him. “How they find where you live?” 

“Plate,” he answered, coughing shortly, lungs burning. “Just takes a phone call.” 

“¿Qué hay de la policía?”  
  
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” 

“Pues—Sam call to say he hide your car at the shop. He also say you need another one for a little while.” 

Troy stared out at the road, breeze on his face, lids bruised. “I really don’t give a shit right now, man.”   
  


Hanging his head, Nacho let his arms rest on his thighs as he retreated into silence. The minutes rolled on, and Troy lost track of time, only glancing at him again when a garbage truck clamored and shook him from his stupor. He peered at his profile, Nacho’s eyes puffy from hours of work without sleep, caught between his job at the shipyard and Julius’ orders tonight, his stained, cracked hands carrying a subtle tremor. Guilt panged when he glimpsed the _ regret _ weighing heavy in his eyes and curtained in unwashed hair, pushing aside the barbs of his own conscience.   
  


_ He felt equally responsible.   
  
_

“...Sorry.” Troy corrected softly, awkward. “I don’t mean to snap at ya’.” 

Eventually, Nacho lifted his chin. “Where will you go?” 

Chewing his lip, he didn’t reply. _ Hadn’t thought about it. _

Getting to his feet, Nacho stepped in front of him and blocked his view, gesturing to the hospital doors behind him. “ _ Ven— _ you stay with me. Y _ por favor _ , _ no discutas _ .” He insisted, too exhausted for that. “...Is the _ least I can do. _”

_  
He recalled his couch, comfortable in the way only a half-broken down couch could be—the smell of toasted chillies in the wood of that old house, taken a world away from Stilwater—the migraine demanding a quick decision.   
  
_

Nodding, hesitantly, Troy’s lips pressed into a line. “...Yeah, OK.”

Expectant of a fight, Nacho took a deep breath as Troy stood. With stiff joints, he wiggled the IV stand until the wheels righted, slinging his duffle bag over the other shoulder, all its contents rattling. After being discharged, Troy studied his battered reflection in the _Bootlegger’s _side mirror, massive bandage slapped over a corner of his forehead, arm bruised from the poke, feeling far heavier than he was.   
  


_ Purple, one way or another.  
  
_

The sunshine blinded him as it glared through the windshield beyond newly-issued inspection stickers, but the cool wind on his neck, gasoline smell, and soft leather seats calmed him as Nacho drove back to the Row, avoiding the main bridge. 

  
“Samson has that _ truck ready _,” Nacho mentioned, downshifting, an edge to his voice. “No sé para qué sirve.” 

“...Forgot about that.” Troy mumbled, adjusting the incline of his seat. “...Dex and his _ plans. _” 

“I ready for it,” He continued, Troy opening a bloodshot eye and looking at him. His fingers flexed on the wheel, thumbs drumming the inside, open window tossing his hair. “...Rest yourself,” he urged. “Sólo no pienses— _ er, _ digo _ — _ don’t think about it now.” 

Eyes drooping closed, his head rocked with every bump in the road.

“Estoy_ cansada de esto. _ Ellos pagarán por ello _con sus vidas_. ” Nacho muttered under his breath, _ more to himself _ , shaking his head frustratedly. He slowed at the flashing ambers of the overgrown train tracks, rattling the stick and halting, engine idling in the misty morning. “...Tenemos que hacer un movimiento antes de que vuelvan a atacar.”  
  


_ Need to move before they hit us again. _  
  


“..._ Yo te cubro _ . _ ” _ Troy assured, drowsy and clunky. 

A rickety freight train dressed in graffiti rolled by, horn echoing, boxcars clanking methodically. When he didn’t hear another word, he glanced at him, only to see Nacho blinking, his disposition _ flipped like a switch, _ with a faint smile— _ maybe a little proud— _ tugging at his lips. 

“..._ Sí, _ ” He replied, after the short pause, focusing on the road again. “...Claro _ que sí _ . _ ” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a few months, I'm sorry for the wait. A lot happened offline. 
> 
> This chapter was rewritten four or five times; more times than any of the previous because it's such a brutal chapter. How do you release content of this nature? It's never a "good time" for these subjects. It's ever-present and horrific. But it also wouldn't be Saints Row or the genre without it--everybody in the story is actually *terrible,* whether they want to admit it (or care,) or not, and that's the point of crime fiction I think. 
> 
> Troy's history is starting to unravel. He's in a lot of trouble on all fronts, really. I wanted to make sure he won't have friends anywhere, in order to set up well for SR2. From this point on, I'm not going to discuss him in the notes here; I want the story to speak for itself. I'm sure you've got questions after this one, but they'll be answered. 
> 
> A bit of an update on the fic as well: It's undergoing a massive edit and streamlining, cutting out unnecessary scenes and redundant material. 20 is 1/4 done, and by the time it's finished I'll be posting this fic and the front cover to Wattpad too. For everyone that's stuck by it so far in its not-so-glamorous origin stages, I appreciate it and hope you enjoy the rest of the story.


End file.
